


Blank Slates

by holyfudgemonkeys (erraticallyinspired)



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: (Gil isn't a part of Malcolm's life post Martin's arrest), Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Amnesiac Malcolm Bright, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Cooking, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Eventual Smut, Family Feels, Family Reunions, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Gil is a cat dad fight me, Identity Issues, Loss of Identity, M/M, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Memory Loss, Morning Sickness, Mpreg, Older Man/Younger Man, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, Reunions, Slow Burn, Unplanned Pregnancy, cooking together, literally 13k of them just getting to know each other at a cottage in an unspecified PA town
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:47:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 37,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26590885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erraticallyinspired/pseuds/holyfudgemonkeys
Summary: Malcolm wakes up in the middle of nowhere knowing nothing but his name.Circumstances bring him and Gil back into each other's lives, starting a new chapter for both of them.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 148
Kudos: 133





	1. And they were roommates

**Author's Note:**

> There are some OCs in this first chapter BUT they're really just a way to bring Gil and Malcolm into the same room.
> 
> Also, keep the tags in mind - while Gil did arrest Martin, he didn't become a part of Malcolm's life and so wouldn't recognize him.

The light wakes him. It’s still relatively soft, just beginning to stream through the upper canopy of the forest he finds himself in. There’s a soft cacophony of sound all around him. Bees buzzing, birds calling, and the occasional rustling of leaves make up the backdrop here, and it’s all so soothing that he contemplates just staying where he is. 

But then it starts to rain. Big, fat droplets of water smack the leaves above him, forcing them to dip from the weight. The first drop to hit him lands in the middle of his forehead and slips off to the side. The hints of sky he can see are still light, but the rain seems to be picking up. He shifts, pulling himself up, realizing he’s sprawled out on the ground with twigs poking his back and leaves pillowing his head. He’s not sure where he is or why. 

He doesn’t know _who_ he is, either.

He swallows and shakes his head. The movement is painful, and he grits his teeth against the dizziness. His name is… his name is Malcolm. That much he remembers. Trying to conjure up anything more hurts. He waits for the spinning to subside before taking a better look around. Rain wets down his hair, soaks into his clothes. There’s a steep hill to his left. The forest looks mostly undisturbed, and there are no paths, paved or otherwise, for him to follow. It’s slightly chilly here under all the shade, but, thankfully, he’s wearing a long, warm coat.

And a suit. Odd. Not that either will be much help if he gets drenched.

It takes a lot of effort to get to his feet. Putting pressure on his right ankle sends sharp, stinging pains up his leg. His palms are littered with scrapes, and he winces as he brushes the damp earth off of them. Although he almost wants to stay here and wait for someone to find him, all of his instincts are screaming at him that he needs to move, needs to find a way out of this himself or he’ll end up shivering, dying amongst the brush.

Malcolm picks a direction and walks. Hopefully it’s not the wrong one. The ground is mostly dirt, grass, and overgrown weeds, though there are rocks hidden here and there as he quickly finds out, nearly losing his balance the first time he finds one. His shoes are most definitely not made for this. 

By the time he finds a road, there’s water leaking down through his hair, down past the nape of his neck and into the back of his suit. He brushes a few wet strands out of his face. He shivers. The pain in his ankle is persistent. Seeing the asphalt, however, is enough to give him a refreshed sense of determination. He ignores the small voice that reminds him it could be hours before he finds a town or city. This is progress, and he’s going to take it as such.

At least now he doesn’t have to watch for rocks. He walks towards traffic, keeping an ear out for cars passing in the other lane, hoping anyone who does will stop for the soaked man limping down the road in the middle of nowhere. And he really is limping. Each step ricochets up his calf. His body instinctively tries not to put weight on that leg, but it’s futile. Unless he’s going to hop his way to civilization, he has to continue to put one foot in front of the other. 

The sound of a car finally passing startles him so much he falls on his ass, a muffled shout escaping between gritted teeth. 

“You okay, son?” a rough voice says.

Malcolm looks up to find an older man behind the wheel. He’s rolled the window down to lean out towards him, and his face is screwed up with concern underneath the salt and pepper of his thick beard. In the back of his head, Malcolm guesses he must be around seventy. Maybe mid to late sixties if he’s had a rough go at life. “Not particularly,” he says, going for a wry smile that feels more like a grimace. 

There’s a click as the doors unlock. “I’m heading back into town. It’s about twenty minutes this way, and you’re headed in the wrong direction.” He rummages for something in the center console. It’s a handkerchief, which he holds out the window. “For your head. Get on in. I mean you no harm, promise.”

Malcolm stares at him for a moment. It could be dangerous — getting into any stranger’s car could be, even he knows that, empty as his mind is. On the other hand, something tells him this one is sincere. Something in the way he holds himself, maybe. His hand drifts up to his head, gently probing where it’s most tender, and when he pulls back, it’s spotted red. He limps forward and takes the handkerchief. “Thank you. I’m Malcolm.”

“Carl.” The man’s face eases a touch as Malcolm gets into the car. He starts down the road again. “What happened?”

Leaning against the window, Malcolm closes his eyes. God, he’s tired. “I’m not sure. I woke up in the woods.”

“Do you know where you were headed?”

Malcolm opens his eyes with a bit of a struggle. It seems his body is eager to shut down now that he’s not walking for his life. “I don’t remember anything, honestly. Just my name.”

Carl frowns, brow creasing. “Pretty sure you need to go to the hospital, Malcolm.” 

The word itself fills his stomach with dread. He has no idea why, he just knows he doesn’t want to be anywhere near sterile white halls, doesn’t want to be poked and prodded by staff in scrubs. Malcolm swallows. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Necessary?” Carl’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’ve got a head injury and memory loss, son.”

And yet he still knows he doesn’t want to go. Malcolm shakes his head and immediately regrets it. “No hospitals.”

Carl glances at him. “Look, I can do some basic first aid, but I ain’t a doctor.”

Malcolm stays firm. “You can drop me off at the police station,” he says, knowing he’ll be comfortable there with just as much certainty as he knew the hospital would be bad, “but no hospitals.”

The ride into town is pleasantly quiet. Other than the occasional prodding from Carl to make sure he doesn’t fall asleep, Malcolm has time to recuperate, time for his body to sink into the seat and ache the way it should, now that he’s not racing to find help. He bites his cheek and sits up as the trees give way to a smattering of buildings. 

Thankfully, as promised, Carl drives past the small hospital, pulling into the parking lot of the sheriff’s station farther down the road. He turns the engine off without a word.

Malcolm closes his eyes. Just for a moment. Just to blink.

A nudge startles him. “Here, son,” Carl says, gently helping him out of the vehicle. “That ankle of yours is all messed up. Lean on me, okay?”

He doesn’t need to ask twice. Malcolm gladly takes the weight off of the swollen limb, his hand clenched in the shoulder of Carl’s coat. They hobble in through the doors that way.

A deputy — and somehow Malcolm is immediately sure of the rank — rushes over to help. He takes Malcolm’s other side. “Who’s your friend, Carl?” 

“I picked the poor boy up on the side of the road.”

Something in Malcolm’s stomach turns at the word boy, and he nearly opens his mouth to speak before thinking better of it. It seems more likely he’d lose whatever food he might have eaten that day if he did that.

The two men bring him into an office with an open door. Although it’s unoccupied when they lower him into one of the chairs in front of the desk, he catches sight of the triangular nameplate next to a tin of pencils. 

_Sheriff Rudy._

Carl sits in the seat next to him.

“Anything I can get ya?” the deputy asks. 

“Coffee for me, Joe,” Carl says immediately. “Maybe some herbal tea for Malcolm here. I’m not sure about loading him up on caffeine with that head of his.”

“Comin’ right up.”

“I _am_ thirsty,” Malcolm admits.

Carl pats his shoulder. “You’re also shivering. I’m sure there’s something dry in the lost and found we can scrounge up for you.” He makes as if to get up and look.

“No!” There’s an instinctual cringe in response to his own outburst, a flinch at the level of sound rattling past his dazed head. “I don’t know anyone here.”

Thankfully, Carl doesn’t bring up the fact that Malcolm doesn’t know him, either. He just settles back into his seat. “I’m sure Joe wouldn’t mind going as soon as he brings our drinks.”

But it isn’t Joe that walks through the door with two steaming, disposable cups. 

“Sheriff,” Carl says kindly. 

“Carl.” Rudy smiles at him as he hands off both drinks. He glances at Malcolm. “And your name is?” 

The warmth of the cup reminds him of how cold he is, how uncomfortable his wet clothes are. His hands shake as he holds it between both palms. “Malcolm.” He takes a sip and closes his eyes as the tea sears down his throat. “No last name I can remember, unfortunately.”

“And no other belongings as far as we know,” Carl chimes in. “Any chance we could get ‘im any dry clothes?”

Rudy nods. “Of course.” Dropping down into his chair, he picks up the phone and hits a few buttons. “Yeah, Joe, you were the one who helped Carl with his friend, right? Bring us something around his size, if you can.” The phone clicks back into its cradle. His eyes are drawn to the bloody gash on Malcolm’s head.

“He refuses to go to the hospital,” Carl explains. “If you can spare a first aid kit, we’d be much appreciative.”

“Bit foolish,” Rudy mutters, but he pulls a little red box out of one of the desk drawers anyway, handing it over.

It certainly feels silly to lean towards Carl and let him dab at the wound. Though Malcolm doesn’t know much about himself, he knows he’s too old for this. Too old to be treated like a kid with a skinned knee. 

Carl snorts. “Stubborn’s more like it. I found him wandering over by the woods without a wallet. Doesn’t remember a thing, but he insisted on coming here.”

Leaning forward, Rudy takes stock of Malcolm with his eyes. He rubs a hand against his tired mouth. “For now, I’ll send out a description. We can take pictures, fingerprints, and all when you’re capable of keeping your eyes open for more than a few minutes. Then we can send out an updated report, but, without any indication of where you’re from, I can’t promise we’ll get any useful replies.”

“I understand,” Malcolm says. Somehow, he knows this will take time. It’s entirely possible that anyone who would be looking for him doesn’t know to yet, and there will be a delay, a grace period they’ll give him before getting worried enough to report him missing. Depending on how far away he lives, it could be even longer. Did anyone know where he was going? His exact route? How long his trip was? Would they have to search along hours and hours of road?

“In the meantime,” Rudy says, looking over to Carl, “he needs a place to stay. You got any open cottages? I’d like Malcolm here to stay local until we figure this out, if possible.”

Carl finishes taping a pad of gauze over the cut, evidently having decided it wasn’t wide or long or deep enough to require anything more serious. He purses his lips. “I’m full up right now. There’s one tenant who might share, if I explain.”

“I’d rather not be an imposition,” Malcolm cuts in.

But Carl shakes his head. “He’s a good man. A cop, too. He’ll understand the situation, and I don’t mind giving him a discount in return. He returns every year — I can afford it this once.”

Before anyone can say another word, there’s a knock at the door, Joe popping his head in shortly after. “I come bearing clothes.” He holds a small folded stack up. 

“Escort Malcolm to the bathroom,” Rudy tells him. “And stick around in case he needs some help. Hopefully we’ll have an answer about his living situation by the time you two come back.”

So Malcolm lets Carl help him to his feet again, lets Joe tug his arm across the deputy’s shoulders, lets him direct him towards the public restrooms at the station. When he’s finally in a stall, Joe hands him the clothes and steps out. There’s just two articles — a worn out t-shirt with the name of what he assumes is the local high school football team faded across it, and a pair of jeans. His coat hits the floor with a wet flop. He struggles with the buttons on his shirt because of the shaking of his hands, but it joins the coat soon enough. Malcolm puts a steadying hand against the stall wall as he pushes his drenched slacks down, kicking them off along with his muddied dress shoes and soiled socks. The tile is frigid against his skin. 

“Oh, I forgot,” Joe says sheepishly. He places a pair of flip flops just under the door of the stall. “Sorry, but that’s all we had.” 

“Thanks.” Looking down at himself, Malcolm decides not to shuck the slightly damp boxer briefs. He shakes the jeans loose and nearly falls over trying to get them on. Reluctantly, he sits down on the toilet and eases them up his legs. They’re fairly snug, thankfully. He doubts he could hold them up while hobbling to the car. The shirt, on the other hand, is a little loose. Better than nothing, however. He brushes his hair back with a shaky hand and then reaches to turn the lock, stepping into the flip flops as he limps out.

Joe immediately is by his side. He guides him to the wall and then holds up a plastic grocery bag. “Let me gather yours, and then we’ll head back to Sherriff Rudy’s office.”

Malcolm leans back against the wall and takes a deep breath. He’s dry now, for the most part. He still feels a little damp, but the clothes are already helping. All he really wants now is to lay down and sleep for a year. 

When they walk into the office, Carl gives him a small smile. “When you’re ready, I can take you to meet my tenant.”

“He said yes?” Malcolm finds it hard to believe someone would willingly take in a stranger like him, but he does feel a wave of relief knowing he’ll have a place to stay. Not that he thinks Carl would have tossed him out onto the street if his tenant refused. If anything, he bets he’d be sleeping on Carl’s couch tonight if that happened. 

“He wants to meet you first,” Carl explains, “but I have no doubt he’ll like you. He has good instincts.”

His certainty is comforting. Malcolm leans on him again as they walk outside into the slight chill left from the rain. He’s all too happy to get back into the heated car. 

“We’ll get you a coat tomorrow.”

Malcolm startles. “You don’t have to!”

But Carl shakes his head. “I’ll see if I can scrounge one up. And a pair of sneakers, too. You can pay me back when you find your way, son.”

Truthfully, Malcolm’s too tired to really argue. He snaps his jaw shut and buckles himself in, already knowing he’ll be more than reimbursing him as soon as he can.

The ride to the cottage is nice. Scenic. It’d be much more enjoyable if Malcolm wasn’t in the situation he’s in, but he lets the passing trees and houses lull him. They get to a less populated area within a few minutes. Carl turns down small lanes one after the other, driving past a handful of cottages until he makes the final turn and parks in front of the last. 

Before they can even get out of the car, the door opens. A man walks out, closes it behind him, and stands on the porch with a mug of something in hand. He’s older than Malcolm for sure but still a good deal younger than Carl. Even at this distance, his hair is visibly streaked silver. He watches carefully as Malcolm steps out of the car and only turns his attention to Carl briefly to wave. 

“Gil,” Carl calls out in return with a wave of his own. “Don’t suppose you’ve got more in the pot, do ya?”

The man — Gil nods and flashes a quick grin. He opens the door and disappears inside. 

Not having much in the way of options, Malcolm hobbles in with Carl. The cottage inside is just as homey as the outside. It’s painted in cool tones for the most part, and the furniture is made up of good, solid wood pieces with plenty of throw blankets scattered across them. He’d guess they’re all locally made. Even the cuckoo clock in the kitchen, probably. 

Carl sits right at the table and accepts a mug. 

“Do you want a cup?”

It takes Malcolm a moment to realize Gil is asking _him_. “To be honest? I’m not sure if I like coffee.” The scent in the kitchen is lovely, though.

“If you’ve got something decaf, that’d be best,” Carl cuts in. “Pretty sure he has a concussion.”

Gil nods and sets a kettle on the stove, grabs a box of tea from the cabinet. “Carl asked me to watch over you for a while, kid.”

“He told me you were trustworthy.” Carefully, Malcolm eases down into one of the remaining chairs. 

Gil smiles at that. “My question is whether or not _you_ are.” He huffs a laugh. “So far? I think I like you.”

“Not just the discount Carl offered?” Malcolm says, half-teasing, half-serious.

That gets a real belly laugh out of Gil. “It certainly helps. But my instincts are telling me you aren’t bad news, and I’ve learned to trust them over the years.”

“Give it a night. I don’t even know myself right now.” It’s supposed to be another quip. Malcolm’s smile falters as the words pass his lips.

Pushing away from the counter, Gil rests a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, kid. Sheriff Rudy knows what he’s doing, and if he wants any help, I don’t mind lending a hand.”

Malcolm gives him a weak grin. “Carl did say you were a cop.”

“Just a cop, old man?” Gil snarks, glancing at Carl. “I’m the Lieutenant in charge of the Major Crimes unit of the NYPD. I know a few things.”

Carl gestures at him with his mug. “Just a few.”

As Gil shakes his head, smiling, the kettle behind him begins to whistle. He switches off the gas, picks it up, and pours hot water over the tea bag in the mug he originally offered Malcolm. He places the steeping tea in front of the younger man. “I guess you’re my roommate now.”

Malcolm watches the wisps of tea float out from the bag before looking up at Gil. “I guess I am.”


	2. Oh my god, they were roommates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil and Malcolm's first night as roommates, and a trip to the Sheriff's station.

Carl insisted on picking up and paying for dinner. It’s not as if Gil expected to have two guests — let alone a roommate for the foreseeable future — and Carl not-so-subtly wanted to leave them to talk anyway. He left shortly after calling the order in. His favorite diner in town offered takeout, apparently. 

Malcolm cradles the empty mug in both hands. The tea warmed him, but now it’s gone, not even the dregs left behind. There’s just a damp tea bag slouched in the bottom of the cool ceramic. “So…”

Putting the coffee pot back in the machine, Gil picks up his steaming cup and joins him at the table again. “So?”

“Carl said you come back every year.” It’s the only thing he can think to say. He can remember how the world is, of course, so he should be able to make small talk, right? The problem is how difficult it is to connect without commonality. And Malcolm doesn’t know himself well enough to recognize any with Gil. 

Gil takes a small sip of his coffee, apparently immune to the sear of hot caffeine. “I do. I’ve stayed here a few weeks every summer since before Carl started graying.” He leans back in his seat and hums. “Same cottage, too, for the most part.”

“Is it nice?” Malcolm clears his throat. “Getting a break from fighting crime, I mean.”

Gil’s smile is wide, blinding in its intensity. “It’s more solving than fighting on a good day, kid. But yes and no.” After another sip, he sets the mug down on the table. “The work’s too much when I’m there and not enough when I’m here.”

Somehow, Malcolm thinks he understands. He nods absently as he tries to chase the thought. It slips away in a blink, and he’s not sure where to go from there. 

The kitchen settles into quiet again. 

By the time Gil finishes his coffee, the door creaks open to reveal Carl carrying two paper bags full of styrofoam takeout containers. Gil gets to his feet and relieves him of his burden. He puts them on the counter before fishing three sets of forks and knives out of a drawer. 

The smells coming from the bags are tempting, and Malcolm’s stomach rumbles despite the fact that he doesn’t feel much like eating. Both Gil and Carl ordered burgers. The smell of beef and cheese is particularly strong. He almost regrets not getting one himself, but even as the thought crosses his mind, he knows it wouldn’t have ended well. Something tells him that much grease wouldn’t settle that well in his stomach tonight, if ever. He murmurs a thanks as Gil places the simple pasta Carl ordered for him on the table. 

Carl pulls them both into a much easier conversation. 

When it’s just the two of them again, Malcolm isn’t quite sure what to do with himself. 

It doesn’t seem like Gil knows, either. He takes the silverware to the sink and gives it a thorough wash with a dishcloth. As soon as he’s done with that, he turns to lean back against the lip of the sink and gives Malcolm a sheepish look. “I’m not used to having company here, anymore. Sorry, kid.”

Malcolm’s lips twitch. “Based on how this is going so far, I don’t think _I’m_ used to having company, period.”

Thankfully, that joke lands, pulling a quiet huff out of Gil. “We’ll have to learn together then. Why don’t I show you the guest room?”

Malcolm nods and eases up to a standing position. “I, uh. I think I might need a hand, if you don’t mind.”

But Gil is already pushing off the sink, wrapping Malcolm’s arm around his shoulders. “It’s small, but it’s on the first floor,” he offers as he glances down at the twisted ankle he’s supporting. 

Together, they move slowly. They weave between the couch and the coffee table in the living room, down the small hallway and past the only bathroom on the ground floor. Back there, tucked at the end, is a narrow doorway. Gil opens it. The room is small. It’s more of a box than anything, with just enough room to walk around the open side of the bed, the other side pushed up against the wall. There’s a nightstand, too, and a lamp. No TV — not that Malcolm remembers if he was watching any shows, anyway. 

“I changed the sheets after Carl called,” Gil explains. “Everything’s fresh. I put a spare toothbrush in the hall bath, too.”

Malcolm ducks his head, grateful. “I think I’ll sleep now, if that’s okay.”

Gil helps him onto the bed. “Sure, kid.” He takes a long, silent look at him. “You’re talking fine, and I don’t see any warning signs. You should be good to sleep. I could get you a change of clothes if you want?”

“No, thank you.” Malcolm gives him a tired smile. “I don’t think I have the energy to put on pajamas right now.”

With a nod, Gil leaves, leaving the door open a crack. 

It’s dark. Quiet. His body is small, curled up and compact, and while that might be comforting any other time, the slight pressure against every side tells him that he can’t stretch out. He’s trapped. Confined. _Stuck_. 

There’s a breath against his neck. The coolness of it makes him shiver.

“Who are you?” he murmurs, fear keeping his voice low, barely intelligible. 

“ _Malcolm_.” Both syllables skate past his ear like a frigid breeze. 

He swallows and tries to shift away.

Arms snake around him and —

“Malcolm!” 

There’s a rustling sound, and then his arms are free. He swings out at the voice, at whatever thing was behind him, trapped with him, taunting him. He makes contact.

“ _Shit_ ,” the voice hisses. Then it softens. “Malcolm, kid, it’s Gil. You’re safe.”

His eyes snap open. It’s not dark here, not anymore. The lamp at his bedside is on, showering the room in a yellowed glow, and he recognizes Gil standing there, a hand on his nose. Malcolm pushes himself up into a sitting position. He flinches as he kicks at the blanket with his injured leg. “What — what’s going on?”

Gil pulls his hand away from his nose and inspects it, grimacing at the small smear of blood. 

The red seeping into the loops and whorls immediately fills Malcolm with guilt. He’s awake enough now to understand that _he_ did that. 

But, instead of dwelling on it, Gil grabs a tissue from the box next to the lamp and dabs at his nose. It’s not actively bleeding anymore. “Not your fault,” he says firmly, if a little nasally. He frowns, concerned. “Do you remember any of your dream? You were screaming pretty loud.”

It’s all on the tip of his tongue. Malcolm opens his mouth. Then, it’s all just… gone. Whatever he dreamed, whatever it might have meant for his memory, for where he goes from here, slipped away sometime between Gil waking him up and now. His jaw snaps shut. His shoulders droop. He smiles a bitter smile. “Sorry, Gil.”

For his part, Gil doesn’t look frustrated. He simply nods. “Do you need anything while I’m down here?”

Malcolm has a feeling he really does mean anything, that if asked, Gil would keep him company until the lingering edge of terror fades, but the older man’s hair is mussed from sleep, his face still creased from his pillows. Malcolm already feels guilty enough. “Some tea, maybe.”

With a nod, Gil shuffles out the door. There are faint sounds that follow him, the clanking of the kettle sitting on the burner, the click of the flame igniting. 

His ankle throbs. Malcolm bends forward and prods it gently. When that only serves to send another jolt of agony up his calf, he grits his teeth and leans back against the wall again. 

The floor creaks as Gil comes back, hot mug of tea in hand. He sets it down on the bedside table, turning it so that the handle is facing Malcolm, and then he hesitates. Lingers. 

Malcolm looks up at him. There’s something thoughtful in his gaze, and while there’s no pity he can see, he still has the sinking feeling that it has to do with the reason they’re in the guest room at what must be a disturbingly early hour. “You know,” he says quietly, taking the tea with trembling hands, “I’m pretty sure I’m not a killer.”

Gil’s eyebrow arches. “Only pretty sure?”

“Oh, a good seventy-five, eighty percent.” Malcolm meets his eyes with his best innocent expression and takes a slow sip. The tea stings it’s so hot, and he can feel the path it makes down his throat. It’s grounding, in a way. Or maybe he’s a masochist. Who knows, honestly — not him.

Shaking his head, Gil smiles. “Night, kid. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Night,” Malcolm murmurs.

He finishes his tea before it goes cold. He sits up in bed and stares at the wall. He’d heard Gil make his way back up to the second floor, and since then, the cottage has been relatively quiet. There’s the occasional creak or groan, but he ignores it. Maybe, despite his screaming nightmare earlier, he doesn’t scare so easily. 

(Or maybe he does, since he’s refused to lay down again, to let the sleep that pulls at his eyelids drag him back into that small space.)

Eventually, the cups of tea get to him. Malcolm eases off the bed with a grunt, swaying towards the wall for support. He pushes through each spike of pain as he hobbles to the bathroom down the hall. 

Peeing is another story, but he manages it without falling somehow. 

He washes his hands and then splashes his face. Cold water drips off his jawline in little rivers, not as insistent as it had before Carl found him and similar all the same. Malcolm tucks his hair behind his ear. His face is familiar, just like his name. There’s a scar below his nose. He has no idea where it came from, but he _knew_ it would be there. With one hand bracing himself against the sink, he traces it, wills it to tell him its story. There’s one through his eyebrow, too. His fingers travel there next. Neither of them give him an inch. He sighs and scrubs a hand over his eyes. 

There’s a flash of something in the corner of the mirror.

Wrenching his hand away from his face, Malcolm nearly falls in his haste to see what it is. 

But there’s nothing there. 

He swallows, takes a breath, and hobbles back to the guest room. 

A gentle shake wakes him. Malcolm blinks the blurriness out of his eyes, confused for a second, not remembering falling asleep the second time. 

Gil is patient with him as he reorients himself. His nose is only slightly swollen from the night before. You wouldn't notice it if you didn't know. “I’ve made eggs, if you’re hungry. And Sheriff Rudy called this morning.”

Malcolm carefully sits up. “Fingerprints?” he says sleepily.

“And photos.” Gil picks up the empty mug on his bedside table. “Anything you can give them about where you woke up before you wandered out to the road, too.”

That stops Malcolm short. Yes, it makes sense. They need to find out where he came from, and part of that is looking for the way he got into the woods in the first place. Is his car out there somewhere, broken down? Was he hitchhiking? Did someone dump him? The problem with that is he was walking on autopilot yesterday. He picked a direction and went, forced himself to take step after step until he found road, and whatever trail he probably left in his stumbling could have already been destroyed by the rain. He remembers the way it soaked his hair, ran down the back of his suit. 

“ _Anything_ ,” Gil repeats. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. You’d be surprised, kid. Sometimes the smallest details —”

“— are what solve a case,” Malcolm finishes, twisting so that he can slip off the bed. “Everything counts.” He stands and reaches out for Gil’s support only to find nothing. 

Gil reacts a moment later, taking the brunt of his weight and pulling him automatically towards the door. “You _sure_ you don’t remember anything?” The words may be damning, but the tone is light and easy. “If I had to guess, I’d say you were law enforcement.”

But Malcolm can’t imagine himself in Deputy Joe’s uniform. Nor Sheriff Rudy’s. He can’t dismiss the idea he is, however, and so he only hums. “I could be a crime nut,” he suggests instead. “Maybe I watch all the documentaries after spending a day balancing books.”

“An accountant?” Gil snorts. “Sorry, I can’t see it.”

Malcolm tilts his head to get a glimpse of his face. “Well, you didn’t see the suit I was wearing before.” It’s true that the old high football shirt and jeans aren’t exactly business casual. They’re comfortable, though, if not a little scratchy. 

Gil helps him into his seat at the table with an amused smile. “I’m sure Carl will bring it by later.”

They eat their eggs in comfortable silence, a mug of coffee by Gil and another tea by Malcolm.

An hour or so after breakfast, there’s a knock at the door. It’s Carl — and he has a few plastic bags with him. “Now,” he says, smiling at Malcolm, “before you get upset with me, I picked all of this up at the secondhand store. Cost me about fifteen bucks, all in all.”

“That’s fifteen dollars I owe you,” Malcolm returns half-jokingly. He mentally adds it to the count. Peering into the bags, it looks like a handful of outfits. There’s another pair of jeans, some sweats, a bunch of t-shirts, and a pair of faded sneakers. As promised, there’s a jacket at the bottom of one of the bags. It’s thick and black and a little worn down, but it should be warm.

Carl shakes his head. “Gil, I’ve got a pair of crutches in the backseat, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” Gil slips out the door. 

“Those I had laying around the house,” Carl tells Malcolm. “I figured you’d like a little independence.”

Thinking back on that night, on the painful solo trip to the bathroom, Malcolm nods. “Thank you. I mean it.”

Carl pats his shoulder. “I know.”

The crutches Gil brings back are fairly standard gray ones. The tops have had more padding in the form of hand towels taped on over the original rubber, and they have to adjust them a few inches to nestle comfortably under Malcolm’s arms, but he only needs a few steps to get the hang of them. 

“I best be heading out then,” Carl says as soon as Malcolm sits down again. “And I’m sure you two need to be at the station soon.” He leaves with a wave, promising to check in on them in a few days.

Gil looks at Malcolm. “Do you want to change first, kid?” 

He does have new clothes, and the ones he’s wearing now are starting to feel gross after wearing them all night. Still, it wouldn’t change the fact that he hasn’t had the chance to clean up after walking around in the rain yesterday, after whatever left him flat on his back in the middle of the woods. Malcolm shakes his head. “I’ll go like this.” He hesitates. “I might need help showering later?”

Turning, Gil grabs his keys from by the door. “We’ll figure something out.”

It’s a bit difficult to get out of the Le Mans. Gil has to give him a hand, a sheepish smile on his face. Getting into it was another story, but it’s the only car the older man has, and, thankfully, though it was an awkward fit, they were able to get the crutches in, too. 

Malcolm stumbles out onto the sidewalk, falling into Gil, who wraps an arm around him on instinct to steady him. His sweater is soft. The shoulder underneath it is sturdy, solid. Malcolm leans against the side of the car and wills the slight burn across his cheeks to fade as Gil pulls out the crutches.

Either Gil doesn’t notice or he pretends not to, for Malcolm’s sake. Once the doors are locked, he strides ahead to hold the door open. He waves at the Sheriff through the glass.

“Gil, Malcolm,” Sheriff Rudy says as Malcolm swings through. “Glad you could pop by this morning. I have Joe and some of the boys trying to find your trail from where Carl picked you up. You remembered anything?”

Malcolm gives him a weak smile. “Unfortunately, no.” He’s tried. He really has. He doesn’t like not knowing himself, but nothing’s come to him yet.

Rudy nods, unsurprised. “Not a problem. Follow me.”

The Sheriff’s office hasn’t changed in the last day. Gil takes the seat Carl had. “You know I’m not here to take over your cases,” he says, linking his hands in his lap.

“I do.”

“The NYPD has a lot of resources,” Gil continues.

Malcolm looks between the two of them, easily seeing where this is going. 

“You do,” Rudy says. It seems he does, too, and he’s not bothered. “I’ll send a copy over to your team. Didn’t think you did missing persons, though, Lieutenant.”

Gil grins. There’s nothing mocking or egotistical about it — he’s genuinely happy to help. “I have some friends around the precinct. Besides, it’s been a little quiet back home recently. My detectives are itching for something to work on.”

Nodding, the Sheriff opens one of his desk drawers and pulls out a sheet of paper and an ink pad. “Speaking of resources, our electronic scanners haven’t worked for a few weeks, so we’ll have to do this the old fashion way.” He slides both over. The paper isn’t blank but rather printed specifically for fingerprinting. 

Malcolm shifts his chair forward a few inches. “I don’t suppose you have a wet paper towel or anything?” He can already imagine the mess it will make if he has to use his crutches to get to the bathroom sink. Without waiting for an answer, however, he pops open the ink pad and rolls the tip of a finger across it, repeating the action in the correct box on the paper.

“Looks like you’ve done this before,” Rudy says as he sets an open container of wet wipes next to the ink. 

“I’m pretty sure he’s law enforcement,” Gil chimes in. 

Rudy hums. “Hopefully that makes this process faster.”

It takes a few minutes to get all of the drying black residue off of Malcolm’s fingers, but the sheet in front of him is filled out properly. “Pictures, next?”

Carefully picking up the sheet, Rudy waves it in the air to encourage the ink to dry. “We’ll take them here. No need to make you hobble across the station.” He pulls a digital camera from the drawer and rounds the desk. A few snapshots later — facing front and both side profiles — he sits back down. “I’ll put a report together and let you guys know if we need anything else.”

It’s a clear dismissal. Malcolm pushes himself up to his feet and grabs the crutches. Gil opens the door, and then they’re walking out of the office, out of the station. 

When they get back into the Le Mans, Gil holds off on putting the keys in the ignition. 

“What’s wrong?”

Gil sighs. “Kid — Malcolm, I doubt Carl said anything, but my vacation ends in a week.”

Oh. _Oh_.

“I’ll be heading back into the city then.”

And, of course, Malcolm has nowhere to go then. Well, Carl would probably take him in. Still. He feels his stomach plummet. “What if the Sheriff can’t find a match before then?” He’s vaguely aware of the tinge of anxiety in his voice.

Gil hesitantly puts a warm hand on the back of his neck. “We’ll figure it out. Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the lovely comments!! I'm always nervous about posting a fic, but the reception to this one was so great I got inspired and finished this chapter earlier than I expected :D <3<3
> 
> (I can't say that'll happen every time, but comments are always appreciated a ton!!!)
> 
> We'll be seeing more familiar characters in just a few chapters, btw.


	3. Fishing Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm gets his shower. He and Gil have some bonding moments.

The ride back to the cottage is silent but for the radio. When they arrive, Gil pulls the crutches out of the back and hands them to a waiting Malcolm. He waits for him, too, despite the awkwardness in light of his words, and together they enter into the kitchen. 

“Do you still want to shower?” Gil says, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. 

Although he’s tempted to say no, to give them both the time they need to think things through, to allow himself a moment alone with his anxiety, Malcolm nods. He feels gross. He wants to wash away the grime from his walk in the woods, and hopefully some of his worries will go down the drain with it. 

The problem with that is he’ll need help to shower. 

Gil hangs up their coats and kicks his shoes off, kindly helping Malcolm with his, too. He moves down the hall to the guest room where they left the bag of clothes Carl brought. “Any preferences?”

“None,” Malcolm says from the doorway. A joke is on the tip of his tongue — a quip like _How should I know?_ — but he’s not sure if it would only serve to worsen the mood. Instead, he watches as Gil pulls out a pair of sweats and a t-shirt at random.

They both end up in the bathroom. 

Gil sets the clean clothes down on the closed toilet seat and looks at the bathtub consideringly. It’s small, because this bathroom is small. Most likely, it was only added to more comfortably house a bigger family or group at the cottage. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Why don’t you get undressed and sit on the edge? We’ll go from there.”

Shifting his weight to his good leg, Malcolm leans the crutches up against the wall and pulls his shirt over his head. He can feel the flush on his cheeks as he carefully pushes the jeans down enough for them to pool at his feet. He grits his teeth. A not inconsiderable part of him chafes at needing help with the next part and especially from a stranger, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. Stay dirty, or let Gil help him get into the tub. 

He chooses to be clean.

Thankfully, Gil is aware enough of the tension brewing inside of him to not bring attention to his presence. He wraps an arm around Malcolm to get him to the tub, and when Malcolm is sitting on the edge of it, provides a steadying hand while he turns to put his feet into the basin. His eyes don’t linger. He doesn’t comment or joke or even provide _too_ much help. He leans over Malcolm to turn the water on and then steps back. “I’m going to go grab some towels, okay, kid?”

“Okay,” Malcolm murmurs, watching the water flow from the spout, cold on his toes at first but gradually warming up. He has a week. One, singular week to find out who he is. One week to crack the case that’s his own identity. One week to figure out what to do when Gil leaves to go back to his life.

The life that very much does _not_ include an amnesiac. 

Malcolm clenches his toes in the clear, warm water and then relaxes them. He can feel a headache brewing. His throat feels tight, though thankfully not as tight as it did back in the car, back when Gil first dropped his bomb. He reaches up to wipe at his eyes with a trembling hand and wishes he could stand under the spray of the showerhead and convince himself the wetness there is merely water.

The hall creaks as Gil comes back. He sets two towels on the edge of the sink. “Here,” he says softly, handing Malcolm a bottle of shampoo. “I’ll turn the showerhead on and wet your hair, and you can wash it.” He sets a dry washcloth down next to Malcolm on the side of the tub along with a bar of soap. 

“Sure.” Malcolm doesn’t look at him, just dips his head forward so that it’s hanging over the tub. He licks his dry lips. “You can leave.”

Gil tugs on the faucet. It squeaks, and then a steady spray of warm water mists over the tub. He hesitates then. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” 

“Okay. I’ll leave the door open. Call out when you need me.”

Malcolm closes his eyes and lets the water soak through his hair as Gil’s footsteps depart. It takes a minute to get down to his scalp, and he could crack open the shampoo now, but he lets the warmth seep into him first. He takes a deep breath. He pours a dime of shampoo on his hand and works it into his hair, quick and efficient. The water takes it away soon after. 

Washing his body by himself is significantly harder. He could call out for help, let Gil support him or even run the soapy cloth over his limbs while he balances on his good leg. Instead, thinking back on the fact that he won’t have Gil’s help in a week, Malcolm carefully scrubs what he can in a sitting position and cups his hand in the spray to wash the suds off. 

Maybe he’s clean. He just feels tired. Wet. Cold, even though the water’s warm. He reaches out and shuts the water off himself. 

The showerhead drips. 

“I’m done,” he calls out reluctantly.

And Gil comes back, a kind look on his face that makes Malcolm feel even more tired. “Let’s get you dry,” he says, and helps pull him to his feet. He supports him. Wraps a towel around him. Even towels off his hair without a word. “Need help dressing?”

Malcolm shakes his head. “If I can sit, I can do it.”

So Gil helps him sit on the closed toilet. He turns to give him some measure of privacy, though they’re both aware he’s already seen Malcolm naked twice in a short period of time now. 

It makes the ache that’s his future departure all the worse. Malcolm tugs on his clothes as fast as he can. He stands and wobbles on his good leg. “I think I want to lay down.”

Turning, Gil hands him the crutches. “Okay. I’ll wake you for lunch.”

Malcolm nods jerkily.

The residual water in his hair dampens the pillowcase. Malcolm ignores it, closing his eyes and trying to stave off the tight, claustrophobic feeling of his anxiety rising. His head hurts, especially behind his eyes. Deep breathing only helps so much. 

He can hear Gil moving around in the living room. It should bother him, having the extra sound when he feels so raw. It doesn’t.

It’s soothing to know he’s not alone. 

The old house creaks and shifts with Gil. The kitchen sink turning on is a quiet buzz. The TV is too muffled to parse but audible all the same. 

Malcolm doesn’t notice when his eyelids become heavy, when his shoulders go slack, when he falls asleep in the middle of the morning. 

“Hey,” Gil says, a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Malcolm startles. He blinks, rolling his parched tongue over his teeth as he comes to. “Lunchtime?”

There’s a determined edge to Gil’s smile. “I thought you might want to help me.”

Although Malcolm’s not sure he wants to like Gil anymore than he already does — not if it’s going to make the separation even harder — he finds he can’t say no. Not when Gil’s trying so hard. “I’m not sure I can be trusted in the kitchen,” he says awkwardly. 

“I guess we’ll find out.” Gil holds a hand out.

Malcolm takes it. 

Gil’s brows practically reach his hairline as he scrapes out the pan. 

“Sorry,” Malcolm says weakly, sheepishly. 

“It’s fine,” Gil insists, snorting. “You can do all of the cutting from now on, and I’ll do the actual cooking. How’s that sound, kid?”

He had, in fact, done very well at dicing the potatoes. His muscle memory kicked in, and each piece was uniform in size, especially for how quickly he’d done it. Clearly, Malcolm has experience with knives. 

The irreparably blackened fish is proof enough that’s where his cooking talent ends. It wasn’t _supposed_ to be blackened. 

Gil opened the door as soon as the heat was off. 

(To let the charred smell dissipate.) 

Malcolm opens his mouth to apologize again.

“Don’t,” Gil says. The corners of his mouth twitch up. “Fish cooks quickly, and the potatoes will stay warm in the oven. Just sit there and stay away from the stove.”

Holding his hands up in surrender, Malcolm gives in to the smile that forces its way onto his face. 

The fish comes out much better the second time around. Gil puts a plate in front of him with a small serving of potatoes on the side, knowing from the night before that Malcolm didn’t eat much on the whole. 

“I think I stumbled into the right town,” Malcolm quips after his first bite. 

The corners of Gil’s eyes crinkle. “You could have done a lot worse, that’s for sure.”

(Gil is a _much_ better cook than Malcolm.)

After they eat, Malcolm expects to wander back to the guest room and entertain himself for a while. Maybe Gil was willing to extend a hand earlier, but he can’t want to spend all of the remainder of his vacation with someone he barely knows, right?

Apparently he does. 

“I don’t suppose you remember watching anything, do you?” Gil says as he settles into the recliner, remote in hand. 

Malcolm hovers behind the couch. “Not particularly.” He bites his lip. “Maybe watching will jog something?”

“Just what I was thinking.”

It quickly becomes obvious that Malcolm either isn’t in the practice of watching TV or has lost memory of all the media he’s consumed, too. Gil flips through channels aimlessly, lingering on each one for no more than fifteen minutes before they move on to the next at Malcolm’s perplexed shrug. 

(To be fair, it seems like Gil’s not particularly familiar with anything that’s not a rerun himself.)

Malcolm tugs the afghan off the back of the couch and around his shoulders. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, kid.” Gil mutes the TV as a car insurance commercial pops up on the screen. “Maybe you’re more a streaming kind of guy anyway.”

“Streaming?” Tilting his head, Malcolm lets his eyes widen just a touch. Maybe it’s stupid little joke, but he hates the defeated look on his host’s face. 

It _is_ funny how Gil’s brow furrows, his nostrils flaring in incredulity before he realizes his chain is being yanked. He snorts. “You had me for a moment there.” He shakes his head and flips channels again. 

Malcolm can’t wipe the smile from his face as they settle in to watch _Law and Order_. 

(Gil spends the next three episodes scoffing and grumbling about the accuracy of it all.

Malcolm suggests he change the channel if it bothers him that much.

Gil brushes it off with a wave of his hand. Evidently, he enjoys it.)

The next two mornings, he’s half-convinced things will be awkward again. Maybe Gil has already grown tired of babysitting him, of trying to help him when he can’t seem to remember something as simple as what shows he used to watch, of pretending to care for the remainder of his short vacation.

But on the first day, they plod around the house watching more TV, and when Malcolm wakes up on the second morning, Gil is in the kitchen humming along with the radio as he flips pancakes. He’s only wearing an old t-shirt and boxers, and his hair hasn’t seen a brush yet, but he has a smile for Malcolm all the same. “Mornin’.”

Malcolm lowers himself into a seat at the table and props his crutches against it. “Morning.” He glances at the two plates on the counter. They’re both stacked with small pancakes shining with butter. From the looks of it, they’ll both get another two by the time Gil is done with the batch on the griddle. There’s a bottle of syrup on the table in front of him. “Smells good in here.”

And it really does. Something about the sweet smell is comforting and enticing.

Gil slides the spatula under one of them and flips it with ease. The top is an even golden brown. The corners of his mouth curl, satisfied. “I had an unopened box of mix in the pantry,” he explains. 

The _that I want to use before I go home_ goes left unsaid.

Malcolm musters up a weak smile. He’s under no illusions that a few days of bonding will change Gil’s mind — or the fact that he’s needed at work — but it’s still unpleasant to be reminded of the uncertainty of his future. 

The pancakes don’t need more than a few seconds on the other side. Gil plates them up and switches off the griddle. Grabbing both plates, he joins Malcolm at the table, slides one over. “Eat up.”

Malcolm hesitates before pouring a more than healthy amount of syrup over his pancakes. It feels right even if he sees Gil’s eyebrows shoot up out of the corner of his eye. Cutting into the stack with his fork and knife, he spears a triangle and pops it in his mouth. 

He’s _definitely_ got a sweet tooth. 

“Compliments to the chef,” Malcolm jokes.

Gil chuckles. “It’s just box mix, kid.”

“Maybe I enjoy the simpler things in life.” Malcolm winks and goes in for a second bite. 

Gil shakes his head. “So, I planned on going fishing today. Got my boat rental scheduled and everything.”

Chewing slowly, Malcolm does what he can to hide the flash of disappointment that hits him then. “You don’t need to worry about me,” he insists. The pancakes don’t taste _quite_ as good anymore.

“That’s not where I was going with this,” Gil says kindly, a little amusement shining through his smile. “I was going to ask if you wanted to join me, but if you’d rather stay here…”

“I’ll join you.” The words come out before he can really think about it. He’s not sure if he likes to fish. He’s not sure if he knows _how_ to fish. The one thing he does know, however, is that he doesn’t want to stay at the cottage alone today, and so he can’t bring himself to regret the impulsive decision. 

It helps that Gil’s face brightens. “I have a spare rod you can use.”

Getting into the boat is a bit of a hassle, but Gil helps him without getting impatient. They tuck his crutches in the bed of it. It rocks slightly as Gil gets in the opposite end. 

The river is soothing. There are a few other boats out on the water other than theirs, each one with at least one fishing line over the side, spread out enough that they could shout at each other but are relatively alone in their space. 

Malcolm takes the baseball cap Gil hands him with a bemused smile and sets it on his head. He watches, too, as Gil attempts to explain how to work with the fishing rod. It’s not a failure on his host’s part, honestly. It feels like a lot to wrap his head around, and Malcolm holds back on announcing that he’s pretty sure he’s never, ever done this before. 

(He gets the feeling Gil has come to that conclusion on his own, anyway.)

Actually fishing is a bit weird, too. He holds the fishing pole carefully and does his best to pay attention to the water, to what he’s doing. Part of his attention is on Gil, though. He notices the way his body relaxes as they sit there, the portable radio Gil brought playing softly between them. There’s something so peaceful about him now. 

Gil whistles when he catches his first fish. He cheers when Malcolm manages to catch one, too. His mouth is permanently turned up in a small smile that only grows with each fish they bring in the boat, each hour that passes on the relatively calm river. 

In some ways, Malcolm envies him. Envies his calm. It’s fleeting, mostly, because some of it _is_ rubbing off on him. He realizes around hour four of sitting in the boat that he hasn’t thought about next week once, and he only starts to as they take a break to eat the sandwiches he helped Gil pack that morning after breakfast. 

“Are you bored yet?” Gil jokes, smiling.

Malcolm shakes his head. “It’s nice out here.”

Gil hums. “I’ll miss it when I go back.” He looks down the river wistfully. 

When he goes back to New York. When he and Malcolm part ways, probably for good. 

Malcolm bites his cheek. “But you aren’t ready to retire.”

“No, definitely not,” Gil says immediately, turning back to him. “I love this place, but I’d go stir-crazy if I stayed for more than a few weeks at a time. I got a few more years at the precinct ahead of me.”

It’s not the first time Malcolm’s imagined how Gil must look when he’s in his element. He knows he’s a lieutenant, that he doesn’t wear the uniform anymore, that he probably gets to dress the way he wants. And knowing Gil? Malcolm bets it’s something classic. Likely reminiscent of something in one of the cop shows he loves to hate. Maybe with his badge clipped to his belt, too. He certainly has the car for that look. 

Although harder to picture without knowing faces, Malcolm imagines his team beside him. He’s heard a few stories about JT and Dani over the last few days. They’re both fierce in Gil’s stories, and it’s easy to see that their boss is proud of them. Not only does Gil trust them to hold down the fort while he’s gone, he’s said more than once they’re due for promotions, that they’ve more than earned their place in Major Crimes, that he has no doubt JT will take over when he finally does retire. 

Malcolm feels a pang of loss at the thought that he’ll never meet these people. He’ll never get to verify the picture he’s built up in his head of _any_ of it. 

“I don’t suppose you’ll want fish again tonight,” Gil says wryly as he starts up the Le Mans.

Malcolm clutches at the cooler full of their catch. His crutches are already in the back. The cap is still on his head. He forces a smile he barely feels. “I’m sure you’ll make it interesting.”


	4. Decisions, Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil's vacation ends soon.
> 
> Malcolm needs to make a decision.

As the days go by, Malcolm adapts to the crutches more and more. 

He also gets stir-crazy.

Sure, Gil made sure they got out of the house to fish a handful of times, but mostly they stayed inside so that he didn’t get winded or need to rest while they were in the middle of nowhere. And Malcolm appreciated that — at first. The more agile he got on his crutches, the more he wanted to get up and leave. He wanted to walk through town. He wanted to go to the store with Gil. He wanted to do something that _didn’t_ involve sitting on the couch or at the table and watching. 

(There are only so many episodes of Law and Order he can stand in a sitting, really.)

While Gil cleans up their breakfast dishes that morning, Malcolm swings his way back to the guest room to get dressed. He pulls out the sweats Carl gave him, knowing that it would be slightly cool before the sun really came on in full force, and deftly dresses himself, socks and sneakers included. 

Gil raises a brow when he sees him. The older man is still in his pajama pants and the old, faded NYPD shirt he often wore in the mornings. “Where do you think you’re going, kid?”

Malcolm drops down into one of the kitchen chairs, props his crutches up against the table, and smiles, unrepentant. “ _We_ are going for a walk.”

“Uh huh.” The drying rack rattles as Gil puts a dripping clean plate on it. “Remind me when I agreed to this?”

“If I had to guess, in the next minute or two,” Malcolm says cheerfully. 

“I’m not sure you should be running around on that foot,” Gil retorts.

But he’s still not saying _no_ , which means he hasn’t shut out the idea entirely. Malcolm stares him down. “It’s not healthy for me to sit around until it heals, either. A short walk now and then will help me stay active in the meantime. Besides, I know you’d be out and about a lot more if I wasn’t dropped on you.”

“Kid, I had a choice,” Gil insists. “I wasn’t forced to take you in.”

Malcolm waves him off. “Still.”

The moment he gives in is all too easy to spot. Shaking his head, lips turning up at the corners, Gil washes the last of the silverware and dries off his hands. “I’ll go get dressed.”

The area around the cottage is peaceful. Gil’s got a good deal of land to himself in this rental, and so there’s plenty of thin forest to walk through without disturbing or even encountering the other renters. 

Of course, the ground isn’t even. Gil has to steady him once or twice before they really get going. His brow furrows each time.

“I’ll be fine,” Malcolm says, looking him in the eyes. He grins. “I got you to grab me if I look like I’m on my way to the ground, don’t I?”

“I’d rather you didn’t fall at all,” Gil grumbles but doesn’t move to go back to the cottage.

It certainly feels like a win. Malcolm turns his attention down to where he’s putting his crutches. 

The air is cool, in part because of how early it is. There’s a light breeze that ruffles the leaves of the trees around them. Everything’s still green, though in a few short weeks, it’ll give way to vibrant yellows, oranges, and reds. 

Gil nudges his side with an elbow. “Look,” he murmurs, stopping suddenly.

Malcolm glances up. 

There’s a deer. Two of them, actually, the second, smaller deer taking cautious steps out of the brush. They dip their heads and sniff the ground. The larger one nibbles on a weed. The smaller one moves to join it but sees them, tensing and stilling. Looking to see what it is, the larger one watches them, too. 

And then both are off, hurtling through the smattering of trees and bushes until they’re out of sight.

“Another reason I’ll miss this place,” Gil says fondly. “You don’t see that in the city.”

Malcolm glances over at him. He feels like he’s seen something like it before, like he’s been in the woods, watched the wildlife, and he wishes he could whip out some story about his childhood or even where he lives. His past is still empty. “I guess you wouldn’t.”

Gil’s gaze feels piercing. 

Malcolm looks down at his feet.

“Let’s keep going,” Gil says. 

They do. They walk for another ten minutes or so before Malcolm reluctantly admits they should probably go back, and they take the walk to the cottage at a leisurely pace. 

All in all, it’s just shy of an hour’s excursion. 

It satisfies the part of Malcolm that itches to get out of the confines of the cottage. 

For now. 

Walking becomes a part of their routine. They take another short jaunt later that same day, and then every day afterwards they leave the cottage on foot once in the morning and once in the evening. The walks become longer. They explore new directions. They keep their eyes peeled for the deer or for birds, which Malcolm in particular finds himself drawn to. He even pulls out a bird call once, startling the both of them with how good it sounds. 

Gil jokes he must go birdwatching on his lunch breaks at his accounting job. 

(Malcolm wonders, honestly, if that’s not too far from the truth.)

Most of all, though, they talk.

“Why did you become a cop?” Malcolm says one day, out of the blue. In some ways, he just accepted that Gil was in law enforcement. It just made sense. 

But he couldn’t have been one always.

Gil’s soft, unconscious smile drops. He keeps walking, though his pace slows as his mind races.

Malcolm regrets asking. He opens his mouth to tell Gil not to worry about it, and that’s when the older man starts talking.

“I was a teenager at the time. Maybe thirteen.” He glances over at Malcolm somberly. “I didn’t have any idea what I wanted to do with my life. I spent a lot of time playing basketball that summer, but I wasn’t exactly good at it.” That rouses a slight smile out of him.

Malcolm finds himself matching it. It’s not that hard to imagine Gil as a lanky young teen running around with a basketball. 

“That was the summer the Son of Sam hit the city.”

A chill hits Malcolm even though he has indisputable proof that Gil is fine. The thought that Gil wouldn’t have fit the infamous killer’s victim profile niggles at the back of his mind, but he dismisses it in favor of listening.

Gil stuffs a hand in his jacket pocket. The other stays out, just in case he needs to steady Malcolm again. “After the third murder, I started to get really angry.” He shakes his head. “I was terrified. My mom worked nights, and he started by killing women.”

Malcolm swallows. He wants to ask if she’s okay, if she survived that summer. The question gets stuck in the back of his throat.

“Dad wanted her to quit her job. So did I. I told her I’d get a job instead, because we needed the money. We were all scared.” This time, when Gil looks to him, he’s smiling a real smile, eyes crinkling. “She lives upstate with my sister now. It made an impression on me, though.” 

Malcolm smiles a smile of relief. Relief that she’s alive. Relief that Gil looks happy again. 

“Anyway, I spent a lot of years as a beat cop doing nothing much.”

“But you’re a lieutenant now,” Malcolm says, trying to brush off the slight chill he can still feel. “She must be proud.”

Gil laughs. “Proud, yeah. And terrified, half the time.” He shakes his head. “I thought she was going to drive over and murder me herself when I finally got my first big promotion.” He’s silent for a moment, contemplative. “It was an accident. I figured I’d be on the beat for a while longer, and then this call comes in one night — from a kid.”

His arms are beginning to ache, but Malcolm can’t bring himself to interrupt him.

“I assumed it was a prank call,” Gil admitted. “I was the closest officer, and I figured it would be an in and out deal. The call brought me to a fancy house, one of those small mansions in the city, because the kid on the phone accused a well known and respected surgeon of murder. I expected to smooth down some feathers.” He stops walking and runs a hand through his hair.

Malcolm stops beside him, clears his throat. “And?”

“And it turns out it wasn’t a prank. The kid was the surgeon’s son, and his father was _The_ Surgeon. He would have drugged me, too, if the kid didn’t warn me.” There’s a fond smile on the edge of Gil’s lips. Fond and somber. “He was a good kid. I cuffed his father and got the biggest break in my career. From there, it was much easier to climb the ladder, and now I’m the head of Major Crimes.”

Malcolm can almost see this, too. He can see Gil checking out the call, polite but firm. He can imagine him smiling at the kid who called. Listening to him, trusting him. 

It feels _right_. 

“No wonder she was terrified,” Malcolm says with a laugh. 

Gil huffs but smiles. “I try not to tell her about the big ones anymore. My sister’s certainly grateful for that.”

Turning to lighter topics, the two of them move back to the house for more _Law and Order._

Two days. That’s all the time Malcolm has left with Gil. He lies in bed that morning thinking about it, already feeling like they’ve run out of time. Not a single thing about his life has come back to him, and really, the biggest fact he’s discovered about himself is that he likes Gil. He likes walking around with him, likes fishing with him, likes slicing vegetables while he cooks. 

He even likes watching _Law and Order_ with him despite all the grumbling. 

Who knows what will happen to Malcolm when Gil leaves. He’s still sure Carl will take him in, but it won’t be the same. Of course he’s grateful for Carl, too. Carl is the only reason he’s still not wandering around in the woods by the road. The reason he’s sleeping in Gil’s guest room. 

There’s a soft rap on the doorframe. Gil smiles at him, still wearing his NYPD shirt and pajama pants, as usual. “Eggs are ready when you are, kid.”

Malcolm gives him a smile that might be closer to a grimace. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Gil lingers, obviously reading his face, before nodding and walking back towards the kitchen.

And Malcolm does feel bad. He doesn’t want Gil to feel like he can’t go back to New York, like he’s leaving Malcolm behind even if that’s how it _feels_. It’s not Gil’s fault that he has an entire life waiting for him. It’s not Gil’s fault that Malcolm can’t remember a damn thing. 

With a sigh, Malcolm gets out of bed, grabs his crutches, and goes out to join him for breakfast.

They still go for their morning walk. Or, at least, Malcolm thinks they will until Gil steers him over to the Le Mans instead.

Malcolm gets in but gives him a questioning look.

“You’ll see,” Gil says with a grin. He starts up the engine and drives towards the main street. 

Right to the thrift shop, likely the one where Carl got the bag of clothes he gave to Malcolm days back. 

Malcolm stalls, one hand limp on the car door handle. “I don’t need more clothes,” he protests.

But Gil shakes his head. “It’s only going to get colder. What Carl got you will take you through the fall, but once winter hits, you’ll freeze. You’re too skinny not to have a winter coat, kid.”

“I probably have one,” Malcolm says suddenly. Tiredly. “I might remember who I am by the time I need it.”

_Might_.

Gil’s face softens. “Then you’ll have options.” He fiddles with his keys. “Look, I wasn’t going to ask until we got back to the cottage, but…”

“But?” Malcolm glances at him, brow furrowed. 

“I was wondering if you wanted to come to the city with me.” Gil puts a comforting hand on the back of his neck. These casual touches have become more common the more they leave the cottage, the more Gil hovers as they walk on uneven ground, the more he helps Malcolm into the tub. “You can stay here with Carl if you want, but I have the space, and I don’t mind the company.”

Malcolm feels his heart jump up to his throat. He knows what he wants to say, of course. In fact, a _yes_ is on the tip of his tongue, but his mouth won’t cooperate.

He could go with Gil. Gil is offering. But… Gil has a life. Duties. A career. 

Malcolm’s… Malcolm. Malcolm no name, no history, no nothing. 

“I’m still here for a few days,” Gil says eventually. “And even if you decide to stay and then change your mind, I’ll only be a short train ride away.”

Malcolm nods jerkily. He gets out of the car, looking away from Gil as if he can look away from the decision that’s weighing on him all of a sudden.

And Gil, kind man that he is, doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t push. He just makes sure Malcolm has his crutches, clasps his shoulder with a friendly hand, and heads into the thrift shop, making a beeline for the coats. He glances over at Malcolm, who stands there awkwardly, crutches digging into his armpits. Pulling one coat out — a padded one with a big hood — he holds it up. “How’s this look? Should be warm enough.”

Malcolm swallows. “It looks cozy,” he offers quietly.

Gil smiles at him, all blinding teeth and crinkled eyes. “That was easy enough. C’mon, kid, pj’s next.”

So Malcolm follows him through the aisles of clothing racks roughly sorted into types and bulging with all colors and fits of apparel until they get to the sleepwear. This time, when Gil starts looking at flannel pants, Malcolm clears his throat and pushes past him to look for himself. 

Which is evidently the right move, based on the amused huff he gets from Gil. “I’ll go see what they have in the way of slippers.”

“I don’t need slippers,” Malcolm protests, because clothes are one thing. Clothes he’ll agree to, even if it’s reluctantly. _Slippers_ aren’t a necessity. 

Gil waves him off. “Everyone needs a good pair of slippers for the winter.”

Shaking his head, Malcolm focuses on his own task, knowing he’ll be walking out of here with slippers whether he wants them or not. He’s picky about his own choices. Not that he needs the best fabrics or the most expensive pieces, no. That’s not what he’s looking for. He just doesn’t want to choose _much_. 

(He could still remember. He could still find all of his belongings before he needs any of these things.

He could still figure himself out before he makes Gil spend all of his money on someone _neither_ of them really know.)

“You okay?” Gil’s voice is close, soft. He steadies Malcolm when he startles. 

Malcolm holds up two pairs of flannel pants, cheeks reddening. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Gil nods. Then he winks. “Look what I found!” The slippers he shows off are nothing flashy. Just deep blue slippers with a faux fur lining and a good grip left on the soles. 

Malcolm snorts but finds himself smiling, too.

“We’ll get a few warm shirts, and then we can go back,” Gil promises, lips quirking at Malcolm’s groan. “Watch a few more episodes of _Law and Order,_ make dinner —”

“Watch more _Law and Order_ ,” Malcolm says dryly.

Gil doesn’t dispute it. 

The next day is surreal. There’s not much different about their routine. Gil makes breakfast. They go for a walk. They watch TV. They go fishing. They eat dinner. They go for another walk.

But Malcolm knows what’s coming. He can feel the tension simmering below the veneer. He has to make his decision tonight, if he wants to give Gil an answer before he goes back to New York. 

The funny thing is, Gil doesn’t press him. He gives him the space he wants, even though it’s probably not what he needs. He doesn’t pull away, either. He’s there, just as he has been every day they’ve spent together since Carl dragged him to the little cottage. 

It takes Malcolm all night to finally put into words what he wants. 

Gil has long since gone to bed with a soft, melancholy smile. Like Malcolm had already made his decision. Like he knew for certain he’d be driving off in the Le Mans by himself in the morning. 

That cinched it. It didn’t matter that Gil was trying to hide how he felt about it, that he was trying not to sway Malcolm in any particular direction. Malcolm could see that he was disappointed. Gil _wants_ him to join him. Mulling it over, unable to sleep, Malcolm lets himself sit with the knowledge that he’ll be going to another city, another unknown for a few hours. 

It’s close to three in the morning when he pulls himself out of bed to pack up the meager belongings he has. It’s really just the clothes both Gil and Carl bought him. His original clothes are there, too, but they’re ripped, roughed up in ways that a run through the washer and dryer couldn’t have fixed. He doesn’t think about them much, honestly. Folding everything up and placing it in the bags Carl brought and the ones from the thrift shop, Malcolm looks at the contents of his life. 

He doesn’t regret his decision. 

Getting the bags out to the kitchen is a little harder. They swing against the crutches, against his legs, down from where he clutches the handles of them along with the grip of his aids. They rustle loudly in the dark, quiet room. He’s dropping them on the ground by the door when the light turns on behind him. He blinks at the sudden brightness.

“Kid?” Gil’s voice is too awake for him to have woken up anytime recently. 

Malcolm gives him a sheepish smile. “Surprise?”

Gil does a particularly good impression of a fish out of water for a moment. “Does that mean —”

“That I’m coming with you?” Malcolm readjusts his hold on his crutches. “Yeah, Gil, I think I am. Are you sure you’re okay with a new roommate?”

The grin on Gil’s face is so much more blinding than the lights could ever be. “Definitely.”

Ducking his head, Malcolm’s smile softens. Right now, in this moment, he’s not sure why he ever considered not going to New York. He pushes the thought away and clears his throat. “I’m going to try and sleep since we have an early morning.”

“Good thinking.”

It takes at least another hour for Malcolm to fall asleep. He has no doubt it takes Gil a while, too.

The next time they see each other, they’re both exhausted. Unsurprising, since they were both up so late.

But they’re both in good moods. They eat breakfast, wash the dishes, and make a call to the Sheriff about their arrangements.

Gil packs the Le Mans with Malcolm’s bags and his own last minute things while Malcolm takes one last look around the ground floor of the cottage. 

There’s nothing left to do except drop the keys off at Carl’s.

Carl smiles at Gil when he opens the door. “It was good to see you this year,” he says, taking the proffered keys.

“I’ll see you next year, too, old man.” 

Carl looks over his shoulder at Malcolm, tucked in the passenger seat of the Le Mans. “Be good to him, will you?”

Malcolm waves at him.

Gil nods. “You know I will.” He hesitates on the stoop. “Thanks, Carl. For bringing him by.” He walks back to the Le Mans, gets in the driver’s seat, and smiles at Malcolm.

And then they’re off — destination, New York.


	5. New York State of Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil and Malcolm get settled in New York.

As Gil drives, Malcolm watches out the window. He hopes — desperately — that something will be familiar. That he’ll recognize some gas station or roadside restaurant or mile marker. That he’ll get a jolt, an exhilarating moment of _I’ve been here before_. 

Gil seems to understand. He doesn’t draw Malcolm’s attention away from the view unless to point out something notable along the road. Otherwise, he lets the radio fill the silence between them for the bulk of the drive. 

It’s only when they really get into the city itself that two things happen. 

Firstly, Gil starts to talk about his home. It’s small, cozy — like the cottage, in some ways. A townhouse, though, so there are close neighbors, and one of Gil’s likes to blast wrestling matches so loud that Gil doesn’t even need to bother checking the results himself. The other is quiet, but their dog is not. They’re a sweet lab, he reassures Malcolm, just excitable, and Gil _always_ knows when their owner gets home.

The house itself has a small guest room that Gil has been using as an office. The bed is still there, though he’ll need to put new sheets on it before Malcolm uses it. The kitchen has enough room for two or three people, so they’ll be able to continue cooking together on days when Gil doesn’t have to work late, and otherwise, he keeps easy food in the fridge and a stack of takeout menus on the counter. There’s also a corner store down the street and a kebab truck that often parks two blocks over. 

Secondly, Malcolm realizes, eyes taking in every street sign and building and pedestrian both tourist and local alike, he _knows_ this place. He’s been to New York City before.

But he bites his lip. It’s a tourist destination, isn’t it? A major city not only in the state but the country, too. A landmark in itself. There are so many reasons he could have walked these streets before, and few of them would be of any help to him. Maybe he went to college in the area. Maybe he spent a few days in the city seeing the sights, taking silly pictures, burying his head in maps and bus schedules. Or maybe he was born here. Who knows? 

Certainly not him.

“What’s going on over there?” Gil’s words are soft, tinged with amusement but also concern. 

Malcolm wrings his hands in his lap. “I’ve been here before,” he admits.

Gil hums. “Anything specific coming back to you, kid?”

“No,” Malcolm says quietly. Tiredly. “Just the feeling that I’ve seen these streets before.”

When they get to a stoplight, Gil reaches over to lay a hand on his shoulder. “That’s good. Maybe being here will jog something.”

Malcolm gives him a weak smile. “Maybe.” 

The rest of the ride to Gil’s house is quiet, quieter than before, though it’s a contemplative silence rather than an awkward one. They pull up in front of a row of townhouses.

“That’s mine,” Gil murmurs, pointing to one three doors down. It’s tall, narrow. Checking that there are no cars coming, Gil gets out of the driver’s seat and goes for their bags. 

Malcolm eases himself out of the passenger side and grabs his crutches. Being here is nothing like the cottage. There’s the ever present sound of traffic around them as cars whiz past their parking space to get to the next light. A couple of kids with backpacks and headphones pass them on the sidewalk as Gil unloads the car. 

It’s not bad, per se. Just different. Familiar in its own way. 

Gil walks around him, two bags on his shoulders and two suitcases trailing behind him. 

Malcolm snorts as he follows behind on his crutches. “Is it really that far of a walk?” His lips are quirked in a smile, already much brighter than the one he gave Gil in the car. 

“I can do it in one trip,” Gil insists. He glances back at him and grins. And he does manage it. Setting one of the suitcases upright on its wheels, he fishes out his keys and fits them in the lock of the house he pointed to. “See?”

Malcolm shakes his head and laughs but hobbles up the small set of steps up to the door. The short hallway he steps into has an entryway to the kitchen a few feet in, the end of the hall leading right into a small dining room and further on to a living room. He guesses the guest room is upstairs with the master bedroom. Good thing he’s gotten good at his crutches and better at moving all around, because that would have been a problem back when he first met Gil. 

The walls are all warm tones. Oranges and pinks mixed with a few more muted beiges. There are picture frames on the hallway wall, too. Most of them are of a younger Gil and a woman. As Malcolm reaches up and traces the laughing face of the woman, he makes a mental note not to ask about her, to let Gil bring her up on his own. There are, after all, only two reasons he can think of why he hasn’t already mentioned her — either she left him, or she died. It’s clear that Gil still holds quite a lot of affection for her. 

A soft _mmrp_ and a warm brush against his legs distracts him. It’s a black cat with big green eyes, their body twisted between his ankles, their little furry face peering up at him in curiosity.

Malcolm blinks. 

There’s a soft huff of laughter from the end of the hall. “That’s Spooky,” Gil says, eyes crinkling. “Must’ve slipped my mind. I hope you aren’t allergic.”

Carefully, Malcolm puts his weight on his good ankle and bends down to give the cat scritches between its ears. “I hope so, too.”

Spooky _mmrps_ again, twisting their head to lick a fingertip with a sandpaper tongue, giving him a tentative nip after.

It makes Malcolm smile. “Are they always this friendly?”

“No, she’s not,” Gil says, bemused. “It took her a few weeks to stop ignoring my detectives after they first visited.” Brushing past him to get to the kitchen, he rummages in the cabinets, returning to the hall with a small plastic tub of treats. He grabs one out and drops it on the floor, which brings Spooky scrabbling over to his feet on the hardwood. 

Then. Then he shakes the closed tub. 

And _two more_ cats coming running. 

Malcolm blinks. And again. 

One of the new cats has a black coat just like Spooky, though when he catches their eyes, they’re a stunning yellow. The third cat is a white cat with thick fur. 

Gil drops a few treats for them and crouches down, trails a hand down their backs, smiling as their lower bodies wiggle up into his touch. “This one,” he says as he gives scritches to the white cat, “is Soot.”

Snorting, Malcolm shakes his head. “And let me guess, the third one’s name is Snow?”

“Snowball,” Gil corrects with a smirk. He reaches out and lets said black cat sniff his fingers — the ones that plucked the treats from the container. “They’re all my girls.”

Snowball gnaws at his middle finger. 

Now that the treats are sealed up again, Soot wanders over to check out the new guest. She sits down a foot away from him and stares. Spooky rubs against her on her way to Malcolm, who carefully ducks down to give her another tentative pet. 

It seems like that’s enough to remind Gil of the crutches, of his healing ankle. He straightens up, to the dismay of Snowball. “Do you feel up to climbing the stairs?”

He probably could. A little movement wouldn’t hurt, but then he remembers how Gil described it. “Don’t you need to clean first?”

“That _would_ help, wouldn’t it?” Gil shakes his head. “Let me show you to the living room. I had Powell check the pantry when she came to feed the cats this morning, and I need to go grab some basics.”

The offer to go with him is on the tip of Malcolm’s tongue, not that he would be much help with little to no memory of what he likes to eat and crutches impeding most anything else he could do. 

But Gil must know exactly what’s going on in his head. “I’ll go alone,” he insists. “You stay here and keep the girls company. I won’t be long.”

Malcolm sits down on the old couch and props his ankle up on the coffee table. “I think they’re more likely to keep _me_ company.”

As if summoned, Spooky leaps up on the cushion next to him and finds a place on his lap to knead and circle until it’s up to her standards. 

Gil grins. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

The other two cats warm up to him somewhat slowly. At least in comparison to Spooky, who has apparently decided that he is her new perch and backscratcher. She trails after him when he tries to go to the bathroom and worms her way in through the door before he can close it behind him. 

It’s a little disconcerting trying to go to the bathroom while she stares. 

Soot seems to prefer staying around him but not _next_ to him. She keeps a distance of at least a foot at all times while her sister Snowball comes and goes but always appears when Malcolm isn’t expecting to see her. Like the time he goes into the kitchen for a glass of water and finds her perched on the counter. He has a feeling she’s not supposed to be up there, but it’s doubtful she’d listen to him anyway. He leaves her there as he and Spooky wander back to the couch. 

When Gil gets home, when he finishes putting the groceries away in the fridge and pantry, Snowball becomes _his_ lap cat. Soot snuggles up by his side on her back, little paws bent just below her face. 

It’s the closest either of them have gotten to Malcolm and stayed there all afternoon. 

Dinner is familiar now. Almost familiar enough to pretend they’re back at the cottage again, cooking up the fish that they (mostly Gil) caught that day, except that the chicken he breads and bakes came from the grocery store. The vegetables aren’t as fresh, either, coming from the store rather than the farmer’s market. 

Gil still has Malcolm prepare them. Malcolm snaps the ends off of green bean after green bean and deftly peels the potatoes before chopping them up in small enough pieces to boil quickly. He even gets to use the potato masher once they’re ready. Apparently Gil figures he can’t mess up that. 

(Gil _does_ take over when it’s time to judge how much butter and milk the potatoes need. Salt, too.

Malcolm’s okay with that.)

“I have to go in tomorrow,” Gil says, cutting off a piece of his chicken. “I bought plenty of stuff for sandwiches and —”

“I _can_ take care of myself,” Malcolm tells him with a smile. 

Gil laughs. “I know, kid. Just promise me you won’t try to cook anything, will you?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Malcolm deadpans. 

There’s a lull in conversation as both of them focus on eating. 

Gil waits for Malcolm to finish his smaller portion before he gets up from the table, taking both plates to the dishwasher and pulling the cooled pans and dishes over from the stove to wash. 

Without asking, Malcolm sits on the counter next to him with a hand towel for drying.

“My detectives have asked about you,” Gil says. He hands over the cleaned mashed potato pot. 

Malcolm takes it and wipes it down. “They’re worried about you taking in a stranger.”

“They want to meet you.” It’s not a _no_.

Not that Malcolm expected any less. Sure, it sounds like there’s a great deal of trust between the three of them, but even he can admit that the situation is a little odd, that Gil put himself in a very vulnerable position letting someone he knew nothing about stay in the same house he was sleeping in. It would be weird if they weren’t suspicious. 

It’s weird that Gil _isn’t_.

“I can put it off a while, but they’re persistent,” Gil says quietly, this time handing over the glass baking dish he cooked the chicken in. 

Malcolm absently takes it. “No, no, it’s best to get it over with. Besides,” he says, looking over at Gil as he sets the dried dish down on the counter next to him, “they sound like good people.”

He doesn’t say that he appreciates them being at Gil’s side, covering his back. That he’s happy Gil has a good team working with him, that he yearns for the same kind of connection. Though, he realizes as he carefully slides off the counter, he might be developing that already. 

Gil smiles. “I’ll let ‘em know they can come over tomorrow so long as a big case doesn’t grab us.”

With the dishes done, they retire to the living room to — unsurprisingly — watch another _Law and Order_ rerun. Gil excuses himself after the second episode to go tidy up the guest room, leaving Malcolm with a lap full of a black cat and two more cats who stare at him as they snuggle together on the floor. 

Eventually, Soot wanders off upstairs. She comes back a few minutes later at Gil’s heels. Gil evidently took the time to change into his sleep clothes, too, and he’s wearing an old pair of sweats and another faded shirt. He disappears into the kitchen for a moment.

Malcolm’s tempted to get up and see what he’s doing, but then Spooky twists her head to look at him as he tries to shift, and he can’t bring himself to take away her resting spot. AKA, his lap. 

“They had a special at the store,” Gil says once he’s back. He hands Malcolm a plate with a slice of some sort of dessert bread over Spooky’s head. 

Taking a chunk of it, Malcolm smells it. “Banana bread?”

“Without walnuts.” 

Malcolm pops the chunk into his mouth and chews. “It’s tasty.”

Gil smiles at him. “Good, because there’s a whole loaf in the kitchen.” He picks up the entire slice on his own plate and takes a bite out of it. He raises both hands as Snowball uses her claws to climb up his sweats-covered leg and into his lap. 

They watch another episode.

It takes Malcolm a surprisingly short time to fall asleep. He wondered if the rush of the city outside would be a problem, but it seems he’s accustomed to it, and he slips into dreamland within an hour. 

Into nightmares.

He runs through the woods, sliding on wet leaves and damp grass, mud coating the cuffs of his pants with every stride. He doesn’t know where he’s going or where he came from. The only thought crossing his mind is that he can’t be here. He needs to get away. _Now_. 

Most of the dream oozes through his fingers as soon as he wakes up gasping, half out of bed, his body already in fight or flight mode despite his brain rushing to catch up. The clock by the bed says it’s three in the morning. Malcolm brushes his sweaty hair back. He sighs. He takes a deep breath. 

He lays down and goes back to bed, determined not to wake Gil up the night before his first day back at work. 

The next time he wakes up, the house is just as quiet. He blinks until the blurriness goes away and then looks at the clock. Eight in the morning, this time. Stretching, he eases himself off the bed and to his feet, grabbing his crutches from beside the nightstand. 

Gil is probably at work. 

Malcolm carefully makes his way down the stairs. He wobbles once, when Soot darts past him, but thankfully, Spooky seems content to let him lead the way this morning. 

There’s a note and a covered plate on the table. 

_I didn’t want to wake you,_ it says. _You can nuke breakfast for a minute without ruining the eggs. I’ll check in later. See you after work. — Gil_

Malcolm finds himself smiling without thinking much about it. He removes the wrapping from the plate of eggs and slides it into the microwave. As it spins, the kitchen fills with the smell of eggs and cheese and sausage. It’s pleasant.

Or it _should_ be. Malcolm drops one of his crutches as he jerks a hand up to cover his mouth and nose, suddenly feeling nauseous. He swallows. His eyes squeeze shut. 

He hobbles to the bathroom on one crutch, lips pressed to a fine line beneath his palm and eyes tearing up with the effort of holding back. He drops to his knees in front of the toilet.

Spooky curls up against his leg as he hurls. 

Maybe he just doesn’t like the smell of sausage, he thinks, carefully pinching his nostrils shut. He gives the breakfast in the trash a mournful look. It takes him some time and a few near accidents, but he manages to get a bowl of cereal made and brought to the living room without puking up bile again. He drops down on the couch with a groan. 

At least his appetite is back, or rather, that it never really left. He just needed to get away from that smell. He makes a note to tell Gil no sausage in the future. 

Gil calls at two. “Hey kid,” he says warmly as soon as Malcolm picks up the home phone. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine! I—”

“You don’t sound so sure,” Gil interrupts.

Malcolm gives Spooky a careful belly scritch, wincing as he makes contact, waiting for claws. She seems to like it though. “I _may_ have had a rough morning. But it’s not morning anymore!”

“What happened?” Now Gil sounds concerned.

“It was the sausage,” Malcolm rushes to say. “I’m fine now. It just didn’t settle well.” He leaves out the fact that he spent at least ten minutes on his knees, his body trying to expel the nonexistent contents of his stomach. There’s no need to worry Gil. “How’s work?”

Gil hums, thankfully taking the bait. “Good. My detectives are very excited for dinner.”

“Excited to test me, you mean,” Malcolm says dryly. 

And maybe that’s what his nausea was this morning. Anxiety. Nerves. He _is_ supposed to be meeting two of the most important people in Gil’s life. Of course he’s feeling a little off today. 

“They’re testing _me_ already,” Gil quips. “They’re trying to press me for more information. I think they forget I’ve been on the beat longer than them.”

Malcolm laughs. “They’re only looking out for you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Look, kid, I’ll call you if anything comes up, but I should be back in a few hours, and then we’ll have a bit of time to prepare for them.”

“Sounds good,” Malcolm says, and then the call is over.

He eats a sandwich for lunch. Pets Spooky for a few hours while watching TV. Unpacks his clothes in the guest room.

He doesn’t puke again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:3 
> 
> We're getting somewhere! JT and Dani will appear next chapter, and maybe Gil will find out about the nausea...


	6. Dinner and an Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JT and Dani come over for dinner.

Gil comes back just after six. 

Thankfully, Spooky jumps off Malcolm’s lap to go greet him, so he’s free to do the same. “I guess there weren’t any big cases, then.”

Gil sets two grocery bags on the table. “Nope. I think if they weren’t so ready for dinner tonight, both my detectives would have been climbing the walls,” he jokes. Rummaging through the bags, he pulls out a pack of chicken breasts and sets that on the counter. A packaged ball of mozzarella joins it. There’s also a pint of vanilla ice cream and another of mint chocolate chip, a bottle of Hershey’s syrup, and a small jar of maraschino cherries. “Have I told you how grateful I am for you lately, kid?”

Malcolm hums. “Not that I can recall.”

Thankfully, Gil chuckles as he fits the pints into the freezer beside a box of frozen waffles and two pizzas. “Well, I am.” He pushes it closed, checking to make sure it doesn’t pop open again. “You know, we could still cancel. Make dinner and watch a little TV just the two of us.”

“Five,” Malcolm corrects. Spooky winds around his legs in appreciation. His heart feels so light when it gets him a blinding grin, too. “But I think we’ll have to deal with seven tonight. I’m pretty sure it would be rude to cancel on such short notice.”

Gil sighs loudly and shakes his head. He’s still smiling. “You’re right.” Although he doesn’t tense, some of the ease leaves his frame. “They’re coming by in an hour. I told them not to bother you too much, but I know better than to expect them to listen.”

“Because they care about you,” Malcolm interjects. 

“I know,” Gil says, and his smile _does_ lift a little again. “I’ll try not to leave you alone with them too much. Just let me know if they get to be too much, and I’ll cut the night short, okay?”

“Of course.” _Not_. Malcolm has the feeling that would only make them _more_ suspicious of him. His instincts are screaming that he’ll be much better off weathering the storm. “What are we making?”

Gil pulls a food mallet out from one of the drawers. “Chicken parm. Simple enough, and I know the two of them will love it. Grab some spaghetti from the cabinet for me, will you?”

Malcolm does. He sets it on the counter next to the stovetop. “Sauce, too?” He noticed a few jars tucked in on the shelf below the pasta, rice, and beans. Not waiting for Gil’s answer, he grabs an unopened marinara and holds it out.

“Good thinking.” Gil grasps it, their hands brushing. “I had to toss the one in the fridge last night.”

Malcolm gives him a half smile and looks at the different ingredients. He ignores the way his hand tingles. “Is there anything you want me to do?” He knows he won’t be dealing with the chicken. He’s not sure Gil would even let him handle the pasta. Surely, if there’s a way to fuck up boxed pasta and start a fire doing it, he’ll manage it. 

“There should be a few zucchini in the fridge. A bulb of garlic, too. If you wanted to cut some coins and mince a few cloves, I wouldn’t say no.” Gil’s cutting open the pack of chicken now, pulling out a breast and setting it on the cutting board. 

Malcolm watches him cover it with a sheet of wax paper. When Gil grabs the mallet he set aside, Malcolm turns to the fridge and gets the vegetables. Working together in the kitchen is comforting, and he can feel some of his nerves slipping away, not completely but enough so that his hands are as steady as ever as he pulls out the kitchen knife for the job. He holds a zucchini with one, rapidly slicing it into even coins with the other.

If all he ever does for the rest of his life is be Gil’s sous chef, he thinks he’d be happy. 

Gil methodically pounds two large chicken breasts with the mallet. They come out about an inch thick, relatively even across, which prompts him to hum in satisfaction. He sets the mallet aside, tosses the piece of wax paper, and grabs a different knife to cut the two large pieces into four individual portions. Looking at them, he cuts one a little smaller.

They don’t have to talk while they cook. It’s enough to be in the same room, working towards the same goal.

Malcolm glances up at him while mincing the garlic. He deftly avoids cutting his fingers despite working with such a small clove, the garlic collecting on the other side of the knife. 

Washing his hands with lots of soap, Gil meets his eyes with a reassuring smile. “It’ll be fine, kid.”

“I know,” Malcolm says, and, surprisingly enough, he’s not lying. The time Gil told his detectives to arrive is fast approaching, but something about focusing in on the act of preparing dinner has settled him. “I’m done with the vegetables when you need them.”

Gil smiles as he fills up a pot with water, sets it on the stovetop. He pulls the little George Foreman grill he has on the counter forward and plugs it in, too. “If you want to slice the mozzarella, too, that’s about it I think. It’s just cooking from there.”

Which is Gil’s gentle way of saying he shouldn’t interfere. Malcolm does grab the cheese, peeling it open and slicing the entire ball evenly. He puts the cutting board of cheese on the counter next to Gil and washes his hands. The kitchen is small enough that he can feel the other man’s warmth from where he stands at the sink, their arms just shy of brushing. Then, instead of wandering out to the living room to wait until dinner is done and the guests have arrived, instead of letting Spooky curl up on his lap and demand pets again, Malcolm pulls out one of the chairs at the table and sits there.

Gil quirks a brow. 

“I promise not to touch the stove,” Malcolm says cheekily. He raises his hands up in the air. 

Gil huffs a laugh. “I trust you.”

And that’s why Malcolm wants to stay in the kitchen. Right now, it’s just the two of them. It’s just them and the trust they’ve built up between them. Malcolm wants to bask in this before Gil’s detectives arrive, before he’s really put on the spot. 

That time comes all too soon. Sooner than it should, actually, because there’s a knock at the door a good fifteen minutes before anyone was supposed to arrive, and when Gil opens the door, tasking Malcolm with staying right where he is, both of his detectives are there on the stoop. Gil brings them back into the kitchen. He doesn’t look surprised to see them so early.

Malcolm can’t bring himself to be surprised, either. He gives them a nervous smile and a short wave, though he doesn’t get up. The kitchen is too small for four grown adults and a set of crutches to comfortably move around. Besides, not only is there a cat in his lap, but sitting at the table gives him a solid foundation. No restless shifting here. “Hi, I’m —”

“Malcolm,” the woman who could only be Dani interrupts, watching him, all calm and collected on the surface but clearly giving him and Spooky an appraising look. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”

Gil rolls his eyes, a fond smile on his lips as he slips past them to drop the pasta in the pot and check on the chicken. “Play nice, you two.”

“ _Hey_ ,” JT says, “I didn’t say a word.” He sets a bottle of red wine on the table and then sticks his hands in his pockets. 

Gil waves him off. “Food will be on the table in about ten minutes. Try not to interrogate my guest, will you?”

Soot pokes her head around the corner and briefly rubs her flank against Dani’s leg on her way to the closest windowsill. Her sister Snowball is already perched on the other, having popped in as soon as the chicken hit the grill. (They know just as well as Malcolm does by now that Gil will give them a taste — as long as they’re patient enough.)

“I’m surprised she likes you,” JT says, brow arched. He takes a seat at the opposite side of the table, clearly reading the situation enough to know the seat next to Malcolm is already taken. 

Malcolm strokes a hand down Spooky’s back. It’s more for himself than it is for her. “Me, too,” he admits. He contemplated the idea that he could have a job working with animals, but in the end, he decided the cats threw him off balance too much for that to be true. Part of him thinks it must be whatever quality of his that drew Gil to him working on the cats, too. 

Dani’s gaze drifts down to the purring cat in his lap and then back up to his face. “I hear cats are supposed to be good judges of character.”

By the stove, Gil’s shoulders ease. Just a touch. He slots the tray of chicken under the broiler to melt the cheese.

Malcolm shrugs. He picked up on her word choice, of course, and how Gil is still not _relaxed_ , not really. Biting his cheek, he gives her a small smile. “I’ll take your word for it. Can’t say I remember anything I’ve heard about them.”

JT turns his head but not before Malcolm catches the hint of laughter twitching at his lips. 

Dani doesn’t bother to hide her moment of amusement. “You’re more easy-going than I expected for someone with amnesia.” She still doesn’t approve by any means. If anything, she’s forgoing subtlety now, the lightness there nowhere near trust. Not as close to _dis_ trust as before, however. 

“Can’t be bothered by what I don’t remember,” he says, though it’s not as easy as that, of course. He lets Spooky’s weight in his lap ground him, lets the way Gil glances over his shoulder at him remind him he’s not alone. He’s pretty sure Gil’s easy acceptance of him is the biggest reason he hasn’t had a breakdown yet. “And they took my prints and picture,” he continues. “It should only be a matter of time now.”

She nods but doesn’t comment on it.

There’s a beat.

“Is it weird?” JT leans forward, putting his elbows on the table.

Malcolm blinks and turns to him. “Having no memories?”

JT looks at him expectantly.

“You could say that, yeah.”

“Okay,” Gil says loudly, “Dinner’s done. Dani, hand me four plates, will you?”

She does. She knows where everything is, because she opens the right cabinet on the first try, no hesitation whatsoever in her movement. After setting the stack on the counter next to Gil, she takes her seat next to JT. 

Gil dishes up the food quickly, getting everyone a full plate of vegetables, chicken, and pasta. He gives Malcolm a much smaller serving, thankfully. He sets his own plate down at the empty spot next to him, but before he sits down, he shreds a small bit of leftover chicken breast and feeds both Snowball and Soot a pinch with his fingers. The last few shreds he uses to lure Spooky off of Malcolm’s lap. He gives her a few scritches as an extra reward. 

Then, and only then, does he take his seat. 

“Tell me what I missed,” Gil says, very pointedly turning the conversation away from his houseguest. It’s not like they wouldn’t have filled him in at work.

Nothing much, is the answer. Seems like the city took a bit of a vacation while Gil was busy getting to know Malcolm. Or, at least, that’s how JT and Dani make it sound.

Malcolm’s not sure if they’re toning things down in front of him. He eats slowly. He still remembers that morning and the way he felt. Dinner is just as fragrant as breakfast was, even more so in some ways, but there’s no rock in his gut. No horrible lurching or twisting. He’s hungry, actually. He manages to eat most of the chicken Gil gave him, though he leaves about half of everything else. 

It’s enough to net him a grin, and that’s what matters. 

When the conversation is spent, when everyone is done eating what they can, Gil gets up and clears the table, brushing off offers of help from all three of them. He deftly steps around the three cats trying to get to the smears of food on the plates as he fills the dishwasher. Snowball climbs up onto his lap once he’s seated again. “Go ahead,” he says, looking at his detectives. “Ask your questions.”

Dani shares a silent moment with JT. “Why?”

“I already explained,” Gil says patiently. “It started as a favor, and he’s a good roommate.”

JT takes it this time. “You know just as well as we do how often shit like this goes south. No offense, man —” He shifts his focus to Malcolm. “— but we don’t know _anything_ about you.”

“None taken.” Malcolm meets his eyes, briefly, before turning to Gil himself, because he’s curious about his response, too. 

“I trust my instincts.” From the way Gil says it, it’s clear he really does think it’s as simple as that. “And my instincts say he’s okay.”

Malcolm can’t help a little smile. He pokes Gil in the arm. “ _Just_ okay?”

“Don’t push it, kid,” Gil jokes. There’s warmth in his eyes, a moment between them.

“And if he turns out to not be okay?” Dani’s watching them both, something conflicted in her eyes, or at least that’s what Malcolm thinks he sees there. 

It’s odd, both feeling cornered by what is no doubt meant to be an interrogation and also pleased, because yeah, Gil has good people watching out for him. Caring for him. Malcolm bites back on a quip about how he hasn’t killed their boss yet. He’s not so sure that’d go over well right now.

“Then I deal with it,” Gil says firmly. He smiles, though. “I’ve been at this for a long time, you know.”

And that’s that. Their fears aren’t assuaged, of course. Malcolm can see that loud and clear, but there’s a measure of trust there, of fondness that keeps them from pressing the issue more tonight, and he’s grateful for that. The conversation shifts to JT’s wife, how she couldn’t make it tonight — though Malcolm has to wonder if it was more that JT didn’t want to expose her to an unknown — but she hopes Gil had a good vacation. Dani assures Gil she’ll watch the cats again next time he leaves. Gil finally pulls out the ice cream. 

Malcolm eats his sundae quietly, letting the sugar coat his tongue as he takes in the friendly atmosphere between the three of them. And you know what? He thinks he likes Dani and JT even if they don’t quite like him yet.

The next morning, he wakes up early enough to eat breakfast with Gil. Not that he actually _does_ , because his little twist of the truth on the phone means that Gil makes eggs and toast for the both of them and sausage for himself. 

The smell hits Malcolm hard, just like the day before, and he can’t hide the way his face pales, the hobble to the bathroom. 

Spooky snuggles up against his leg again. This time, though, she has to move aside for Gil, who carefully kneels next to him in the small space and holds his hair out of his face, one hand gentle on his back. “It’s a bit early for flu season, kid,” he murmurs, concerned. “Is this what happened yesterday?”

Apparently, Malcolm’s silence between heaves betrays him. 

“Okay, let me get rid of the sausage, and then we’ll head to Urgent Care.”

Malcolm tries to shake his head, but the movement doesn’t help the nausea. “I’m fine,” he insists weakly.

“Just like you were yesterday, right?” Gil sighs. “I’m guessing you wouldn’t have told me the truth about today, either, if I wasn’t here to see it.”

“Sorry,” Malcolm gasps. Sorry for holding back. For not letting Gil in. He’s not entirely sure _why_ it feels so bad, but the situation hits him hard. His eyes tear up, not just from the way his body rebels. 

“Don’t worry about it, kid. We’ll figure this out.” Gil’s voice is soothing, and he gently rubs Malcolm’s back, just touching him, grounding him, through the way his body rebels. He only gets up and leaves when the heaving slows. Even then, it’s only to scrap breakfast and grab his phone to let his detectives know he’ll be coming in late. 

It takes Malcolm another few minutes to feel up to getting to his feet. He grasps Gil’s arms, lets the man help him. They shuffle to the door together, slipping on shoes, and Gil locks up behind them. The Le Mans is only two spots down the street. Malcolm eases in and rests his head against the window, focusing on breathing. 

Urgent Care isn’t as busy as the ER would be, but it’s not empty, either. They take two seats in the back of the waiting room and watch as a good six people are taken in before them. The monitor at the front ticks down with each one. 

Malcolm stares at the numbered slip of paper in his hand. He doesn’t feel sick anymore. Tired, yes. Hungry, _very_. His stomach is crying out for food, and, based on yesterday, he’s reasonably sure eating won’t be a problem now. 

He’s also very aware that Gil hasn’t eaten, either. Breakfast was still cooking when Malcolm came down, when he bolted to the bathroom. There was no time for Gil to eat, especially not when it was his food that set off the whole chain of events. 

Gil brushes his elbow against Malcolm’s arm. “We’re up next.”

That’s another thing — Gil’s coming back with him. Malcolm doesn’t mind. No, if anything, he’s relieved, because he has no idea what’s going on with his body. (With his life.) Who knows how serious this could be? Suddenly, he’s berating himself for refusing to go to the hospital when Carl first picked him up. What if this isn’t something new? He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. At least Gil is here with him. He knows he could go in by himself. He could let Gil go to work and just take a taxi back, but… 

Malcolm doesn’t want to face this alone. 

They call his number. 

The nurse takes his temperature and sends him to the bathroom with a cup to pee in. As soon as that’s done, she ushers him and Gil to an exam room and tells them the doctors are running a little behind. 

So they wait.

And wait. 

It takes over twenty minutes for someone to knock on the door. A tired-looking woman steps in with a chart. “Well,” she says, looking at the two of them, “it’s nothing to worry about. To put it simply, you’re pregnant.”

Malcolm feels a little like he’s going to heave again. _Pregnant?_

Gil stills beside him, though he doesn’t shift away, his hand still warm on Malcolm’s shoulder. 

“I believe you’re likely early on enough to get an abortion here in New York, if you so chose,” the doctor continues. “Otherwise, your sensitivity to certain smells may taper off as your pregnancy progresses. I would recommend setting up an appointment with an OB soon.”

_Your pregnancy._ “I need to think,” Malcolm says, the words coming out of his own mouth with his own voice but feeling wholly foreign all the same. “Thank you.”

The walk back to the Le Mans is silent.

Gil touches his shoulder once more, just for a second, before he pulls out onto the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the plot's finally starting to really develop... ;)


	7. Setbacks and Steps Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm has some things to think about.
> 
> Gil inadvertently gives him another.

It gets a little weird between them. Oh, they still _talk_. They still watch TV, prepare dinner together, and move around each other the way they did before — physically, at least. Emotionally, there’s distance between them. Malcolm mourns how they were just a few days ago. He feels like a stranger in Gil’s eyes, even worse than when they were _actually_ strangers, because Gil was still warm then. Accepting, open to getting to know him. Now, they exist together, and that’s the extent of it. They’re holding each other at a distance.

And worse than that? Malcolm feels like a stranger to _himself_. Somehow, at some point, he became comfortable with the _not_ knowing in the sense that he trusted his own feelings about himself. It bothered him, and he was always on alert for things that could jog his memory, but… 

He grew to like himself as he was with Gil.

Now, Malcolm has no idea who he is. More than once, the thought occurred to him that maybe no one misses him. Maybe he doesn’t have any family or close friends. No lover or partner to wonder where he’s gone. It’s certainly been long enough for someone to worry, if there _is_ anyone to do so. 

A baby changes everything. Does he have someone out there looking for him? Is his partner running themselves into the ground putting up posters and calling around for information? Do they know he’s pregnant? Did _he_ know? Were the two of them planning on having a baby? Were they settled in their relationship? Or was it an accident? There’s no ring tan on his hand, no ring found anywhere on his person, but that doesn’t mean anything. 

Who even _is_ the father?

Malcolm pulls the blanket over his head and rubs at his eyes angrily, hating that he feels guilty because of someone he didn’t even know he had. If he had any hint of an indication there was someone waiting for him — a feeling would have been enough — he wouldn’t have let himself get comfortable here.

With Gil. _With Gil_. 

What will the father think about the two of them? It’s not like Malcolm’s done anything with Gil, though he knows, deep down, that he’s been developing some kind of feelings for him. That they’ve _both_ been developing something. 

(Why else would Gil have pulled away, too?)

There have been no kisses. No touching, no acknowledged feelings, and definitely no _fucking_. Just Malcolm falling in love with someone he shouldn’t be. Getting comfortable with him and starting to think —

_Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I never remembered._

He falls asleep knowing he won’t get much rest.

His legs ache. He can’t stretch out, can’t give them the relief they’re crying out for, and trying only drives his knee into the confines of the space he’s stuck in. 

“Gil,” he calls out. A baby starts crying.

Malcolm shudders and squirms until he can wrap an arm around his stomach. He feels _empty_. “Gil!”

There’s a presence behind him. Something eerily familiar, but he can’t put his finger on why. 

“Who are you?” he murmurs, curling up tighter.

“ _Shh_ ,” they say into his ear. 

The lid to his enclosure creaks open, the light that floods the space too bright, too _much_. The crying gets louder. Closer.

He screws his eyes shut against the burn.

“Oh, Malcolm,” a very masculine voice sighs. “What _are_ we going to do with you, my boy?”

A hand pins him down, and Malcolm thrashes against it, molten tears streaming down his cheeks as screams rip their way up his throat. “No! Leave me alone!”

“Kid,” Gil bellows. 

Malcolm goes limp and meets his eyes.

“Are you okay?” Gil gently tugs the blanket out from where he’d twisted himself up in it. There’s a heavy tint of concern in his gaze. “Do you remember what you dreamed?”

“No.”

“No, you’re not okay, or —”

“I’m fine,” Malcolm snaps. And then immediately regrets it. “I’m sorry.”

Gil gives him a strained smile and pulls back, seemingly realizing he breached the unspoken boundaries between them. “Don’t be.”

Malcolm can’t stand it. He may not like the way his nightmares make him feel, especially when all of the details slip through his fingers the moment he wakes, but he decides right then and there that he hates _this_ more. He clutches the blanket and rolls away from Gil, pulling it over his head once more. “Go to sleep, Gil,” he says, quiet. 

Defeated.

There’s a moment where Gil hesitates — but then his footsteps drift from the bed and down the hall. 

Spooky slips her way through the cracked door shortly after. She curls up against his side and purrs as he cries.

It takes many more tears for Malcolm to fall asleep again. 

When he walks out a few hours later, feeling just as horrible as he looks, he finds Gil fully dressed for the day and flipping pancakes in the quiet kitchen. 

“Mornin’,” Gil says calmly, but there’s a concern and a wariness written all over his face that belies just how the rest of _his_ night went. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” is what Malcolm settles on. It’s the truth, surprisingly enough. He feels as if he’s cried all of the tears his body can produce, and while he’s aware enough to know that’s far from reality, it settles him. 

He’s made some decisions.

Some of the tension in Gil’s shoulders eases. Some. “Are you hungry?”

Malcolm puts a tentative hand on his stomach. There’s not much to feel there, just a little bit of a curve he assumed was the result of being stuck on crutches and fed all of the wonderful food Gil made, but now he knows it’s his baby. “No,” he says honestly. “I’ll eat, though.”

Gil serves him up two pancakes and two fried eggs. He makes himself a plate, too, and sits across the table. 

It’s awkward. 

“Could I have the password for the computer?” Malcolm forces himself to eat the eggs first, even though the pancakes are calling his name. “I wanted to do some research.” He gestures down at his stomach. 

Gil smiles slightly. “Sure, kid. I’ll write it down before I leave.” He clears his throat. “I thought I’d try and stop by for lunch.”

“You don’t have to,” Malcolm says immediately.

“I want to.”

Malcolm looks at him for a long moment, and all he can see is sincerity. Maybe a little shame. He nods. “I’ll be here,” he jokes, half-hearted.

It makes Gil smile again. 

That helps. 

The worst part is, Malcolm’s not sure what to look up. Well, of course, he does. Pregnancy, specifically _male_ pregnancy. The problem with that is how broad the subject is.

He doesn’t even know how far along he is! Gil did make him an appointment with an OB to find out, but it isn’t for another week.

Maybe he panics a little. Maybe he types in ‘male pregnancy’ and hits enter, feeling wildly out of his depth and overwhelmed by all of the possibilities. Maybe he has to step away from the computer and fall into bed for a while. 

(Spooky comes again, and this time, Snowball hops up on the foot of the mattress, too, not touching him but there all the same.)

In the end, Malcolm makes a list of things to work on. He may not know who he is or who his baby’s father is, but he _does_ know he doesn’t want his baby to suffer from his own issues. He can’t rely on Gil, either. It might even be for the best if he gets himself ready to leave, to make his own path for himself and his baby.

First up is yoga. It seems easy enough, or at least the beginners video he watches does. So many of the blogs he finally found the courage to click on recommended yoga for light exercise the further along he gets. The man on the screen starts with breathing exercises. 

It _should_ be easy. Right? Except that Malcolm can’t focus. His mind is racing, and not even the soft purring of the kitty circling his legs can calm the flood. 

He almost breathes easier when the phone rings. 

“Hey kid,” Gil says when he picks up. His voice isn’t anywhere near as even as it was that morning. He sounds harried, frustrated. “I’m afraid I won’t be making it back for lunch today.”

Malcolm bites his lip, not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed. “Big case?”

There’s a moment of silence, a beat where he’d swear the line was cut if not for the soft, muffled sounds of the precinct around Gil. 

“You could say that,” Gil says eventually. Wearily. “I can’t say if I’ll be back for dinner, either.”

“Okay,” Malcolm murmurs. He tells himself not to be worried. This is Gil’s job, and he knows he’s faced some daunting cases before. 

His heart still feels heavy when the call is over. 

He makes himself a sandwich eventually. He eats it idly, sneaking all three cats a bit of leftover chicken that couldn’t fit inbetween the slices of bread. After hearing from Gil, he feels even more restless than before. Yoga is a lost cause today. He never planned on trying to cook without Gil’s supervision, either, so that’s out, too. He could look at more pregnancy sites — the kind that took it week by week and included all sorts of tidbits geared towards perking up expectant parents — but he just.

 _Doesn’t_ have the energy to. 

“Should I get some fresh air?” Malcolm gives Spooky a light scratch between the ears. 

She chases his hand as he tries to pull it away, purring quite aggressively loud. Neither of her sisters will let him pet them yet, but they’re getting used to him.

(The chicken probably helps.)

“Maybe I _should_ get some fresh air.”

He pulls on some of the clothes they got at the thrift store. He refills the water bowls for the cats, grabs the spare key from the set of hooks on the side of the fridge, and takes a tentative step outside. 

It’s nice out. Sunny and warm. It would be hot, the last vestiges of summer clinging on, but there’s a breeze, too. 

Malcolm closes his eyes and lets the wind ruffle his hair. Taking a deep breath, he walks down the front walk and turns onto the sidewalk, not caring which way he goes. It’s not like he has a destination. He walks fairly quickly. He passes some people on the sidewalk, exchanging nothing more than a nod every now and then. 

Cars speed past him. The city is alive around him, and he feels comfortable here. 

He’s never been more sure that New York was his home at some point. He knows he shouldn’t be so specific. Maybe he’s just a city boy, and New York hits the spot that way. Something, though, something tells him that this city is _his_ city. 

By the time he turns around and makes the walk back to Gil’s, school has been let out. He weaves in and out of packs of children with backpacks and wonders if he was one of them once. If they go to the same school he used to. 

Would the schools still have records? He considers it but crosses that thought out nearly as quickly as he has it. Even if he did go to school around here, they don’t know how old he is exactly. They don’t know where he lived. They don’t know anything but his first name and what he looks like now. 

They don’t know if his name really _is_ Malcolm.

The townhouse is quiet when he gets back. The cats are waiting for him, however, and that’s enough to boost his mood once again.

It’s a stupid thought, and Malcolm convinces himself of this no less than six times before he finally ignores himself and commits to it. He grabs the money left behind for him. 

Taking a taxi to the same hole in the wall restaurant Gil’s ordered curry from three times since they’ve gotten back to New York, he picks up their usual orders as well as a few extra orders of appetizers, not sure exactly what Dani and JT would like and also not wanting to show up without food for them. He walks to the precinct from there.

(He suspects Gil likes this place so much because of how close it is.)

“I’m here to see Lieutenant Arroyo,” he tells the bored-looking man at the desk out front. “I’m his roommate,” he adds. 

“His office is in the back.”

Malcolm gives him a half-smile. “Thanks.” He wanders down between cubicles, eyes scanning the doors as he goes, looking for Gil’s name. 

“Malcolm?”

He turns his head to see Dani. “Is Gil in?”

“Yeah. What’s up?”

He realizes that she’s concerned, and okay, _maybe_ he should have called ahead of time. “I figured I’d bring him dinner. I didn’t know what you and JT would want, but I brought extra just in case.” 

She glances down at the bag in his hand. “Is that Indian —”

“From Gil’s favorite place?” Malcolm shrugs awkwardly. “Yeah.”

“I’ll show you for a samosa,” she says, and it becomes very clear she’s teasing by the way she moves on without waiting for a response.

It’s… nice. Malcolm will let her have all of the extra samosas if she wants, honestly. 

She rapps on the door that simply says _Arroyo_. “Gil,” she calls out, turning the handle, “I have a delivery for you.”

Gil is at his desk inside. His feet are up on the corner of the desk, his chair leaning back just this side of too far, and he’s rubbing his temple. “Malcolm?”

Malcolm waves. “And dinner.”

This time, Gil gives him a real smile. One of the ones he used to give him before they found out about the baby between them. “Come in, kid. Is that —”

“Yeah,” Malcolm says, chuckling.

Gil glances over at Dani, who raises her hands. 

“I’m just here for my payment,” she says, and, true to her words, she slips out of the office with an order of samosas a moment later. 

“I really am sorry,” Malcolm blurts out once they’re alone. He knows they’re drifting. They _both_ know they’re drifting. It doesn’t mean he should be pushing Gil away.

Gil shakes his head. “You have a lot on your mind.”

“I do. I just —” Malcolm slumps into one of the chairs in front of his desk. “I just want things to be like they were before we found out. I was pregnant then, too.”

“I know. I’m sorry, too.” Giving him a long look, one full of regret, Gil sighs and stands up. “Let me go grab us some drinks, okay, kid?” He puts a warm hand on Malcolm’s shoulder and squeezes.

It’s the first real touch they’ve shared in a while now. Malcolm grins and nods. 

And then Gil is gone. 

And Malcolm is _bored_. He glances around the office, noting the toy Le Mans on the back shelf with more than a bit of amusement. There’s a flag, too, and some photos — some of Gil with the same woman from the pictures in the hall back at his house, the woman Malcolm is convinced must have died. 

There’s also a folder on his desk.

An _open_ folder.

Curiosity gets the better of him. Malcolm pulls it closer, turns it around to face him. 

There are pictures of the scene. The body. 

Malcolm’s head _throbs_. The whole layout of it is — is _familiar_. Everything from the way the body is posed to the lack of obvious struggle elsewhere in the apartment screams at him. He knows this case. He’s sure of it. His mind races. 

The door opens. 

Gil closes it behind him and stops, two bottles of water in hand. “Kid?”

“The Surgeon has a copycat?” he croaks, words feeling thick in his mouth. 

Looking at the window out to the rest of the precinct, Gil closes the blind with a frown. “I shouldn’t have left that out.”

“I shouldn’t have looked,” Malcolm says wryly. 

Gil scrubs a hand across his mouth. “Why’d you say it’s a copycat?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Humor me.”

Malcolm tilts his head. “Well, the method is all the same.” He glances down at the coroner’s report. “Down to the drug used. Your victim was killed in the same way as the first victim of the Quartet.”

“But you said copycat,” Gil insists. “Not The Surgeon. His _copycat_.”

“Well, yeah. It’s clear they aren’t as experienced — medically or with murder. They must have the money to buy the tools and the connections for the drugs, but they were definitely following a guide of sorts.” He’s not sure how he knows this. He just looked at the case and knew it _couldn’t_ be The Surgeon. He saw the minute differences like they were screaming at him. 

Gil takes his seat again, leaning over the desk ever so slightly. “What else can you tell me?”

Malcolm licks his lips. “He’s a white man,” he says slowly. “Average in size and height but smart. A high-functioning psychopath who can’t design his own murders, so he steals another killer’s. One that he admires.”

“I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think you’re an accountant, kid.” Gil gives him a slight smile as he opens up the bag of takeout.

“That’s an extremely basic profile,” Malcolm retorts. “I wouldn’t be calling me detective any time soon.”

Gil opens up his curry but doesn’t dig in, instead catching his gaze with a serious look. “We never released the types of drugs The Surgeon used in any specific case. You recognized it was the same.”

“Oh.”

“It doesn’t mean much, I admit.” Gil sighs and bites into one of the samosas Dani didn’t take with her. “The Surgeon isn’t exactly unknown in law enforcement across the country.”

“But it’s something,” Malcolm finishes quietly. He sneaks a samosa, too. 

“We’ll get there,” Gil promises. 

Malcolm believes him. There’s still a bit of distance between them, but… Gil is reaching out again, and Malcolm knows he’ll do the same. He’s already doing the same. 

Maybe they’ll be alright.

Gil cringes suddenly.

“What?”

“Our copycat must have an inside source,” Gil says tiredly, “or else he wouldn’t know which drug to use, either. It could be a cop, or…”

“The Surgeon himself.”

Gil nods. “I might have to talk to him.”

Malcolm grimaces. He remembers their conversation about The Surgeon before. He remembers that _Gil_ was the one who caught him. “Be careful.”

Gil nods solemnly. “I will.”


	8. Three Whitlys and an Arroyo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil makes two visits, and the mystery deepens.
> 
> (Gil POV this time!)

Gil’s never walked these halls. He never had a reason to. The NYPD had all they needed to put Martin Whitly behind bars despite his fancy lawyer, and any attempt to get him to confess to more was handled by officers more familiar with the case. 

And besides, it didn’t take a cop to see the palpable hatred lurking in The Surgeon’s eyes as Gil sat in and gave his statement at the trial. He wasn’t stupid enough to poke him by visiting. He took his promotion and prayed he never met the man again. 

Now, though, he has little choice. Although he never interacted with the remaining Whitlys much, he always was confident the wife never had anything to do with the murders, and, as such, Jessica Whitly wouldn’t be able to help him with his case. No, only Martin himself can do that. 

Gil signs in, pulling out his badge to get past the visitor list. 

The woman behind the desk tells him no one’s visited Martin in years. The last, in fact, was his son some ten years back. The good doctor has video calls, of course, and monitored consultations, but those were all privileges earned through good behavior. 

Gil doesn’t doubt it. There’s a reason the entire country was shaken by the arrest. Divided, too, though the vast majority landed on the right side once the evidence was revealed. 

Guards escort him to a locked door. Beyond the door is a short hallway that ends in another locked door.

Somehow, it doesn’t seem like enough. 

A tall bald man unlocks the first door from within. “Lieutenant Arroyo,” he says calmly. “You can call me Mr. David. I’ve watched over Martin for as long as he’s been here. I’ll warn you — he’s not in a good mood.”

“Does he know who his visitor is?” Gil grimaces. He’s not sure which answer he wants to hear.

Mr. David shakes his head. “He knows you’re law enforcement. They wouldn’t tell me why you’re here, Lieutenant, but it’s best not to give him time to plan. This mood, though…” He glances back towards the second door. “He’s been weird for weeks now.”

Maybe Martin has more to do with his case than even he expected. “Weird, how?”

“Agitated,” Mr. David says, frowning. “Martin’s good at putting on a pleasant face. Lately, not so much.”

Gil nods absently, his mind both racing through all of the possibilities and preparing to see The Surgeon again. 

It’s probably a futile effort. 

They walk down the hall. Mr. David uses his keycard to unlock the secondary door, and that’s that.

Gil’s face to face with Martin Whitly for the first time in twenty years. 

The other man looks much less slick and put together than he used to. His hair has grayed, his curls left to their natural state, his beard grown out. His fine clothes have been replaced with a white uniform and a cardigan. 

His eyes, however, hold the same manic hatred. 

“Dr. Whitly,” Gil says, keeping his voice even. 

A grin spreads across Martin’s face. “Officer Arroyo, is that you? Whyever are you visiting me? And after _so_ many years, too. You don’t write, you don’t call.” His smile drops, leaving his face flat. “I’m not in the mood for visitors, Mr. David.”

“I’m here on police business,” Gil cuts in and takes a step closer to the line across the floor. He doesn’t let it bother him when Martin does the same. “So I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice.”

Martin sneers. “What part of ‘I’m not in the mood’ are you having trouble with exactly?”

Well, Gil isn’t in the mood for _his_ attitude, either. He takes another step, lifting the case folder he brought with him, opening it to reveal pictures of their first victim. While his superiors weren’t big on the idea of showing it off, Gil — and Malcolm — had a feeling it would loosen him up a bit.

The Surgeon was proud of his murders, after all. 

“ _This_ can’t wait for you,” Gil says. “You have a copycat, Dr. Whitly. I’m sure the department will be willing to negotiate for another one of your fancy privileges if you cooperate with my investigation.” Not that Martin needs anything more, he thinks, glancing around the room in disgust. His cell is already much too cushy for a prisoner of his caliber. 

But, despite the temptation, Martin doesn’t look down at the folder. He stares at Gil blankly for a while, as if that would be enough to make him disappear. Finally, he turns around and lays down on his bed facing the wall. 

It feels just like the dismissal it is. Gil grits his teeth and makes to leave.

“You know what, Officer?” Martin says, not looking over his shoulder. “I’ll make you a deal. You convince my son to visit me, and I’ll talk to him about your case. I have no idea why your boss thought I would talk to _you_ of all people. Oh, and don’t worry about bringing in a civilian. He’s an agent at the FBI; did you know that?”

Gil knows his superiors most definitely won’t allow him to do that. 

But, if Dr. Whitly won’t talk, there’s nothing much to be done.

He leaves with a headache the size of the city brewing in across his forehead. 

Sitting at his desk, head in his hands, Gil makes a difficult decision that he can’t bring himself to regret, because, as he sees it, he has two options —

Attempt to contact Malcolm Whitly on the off-chance The Surgeon’s son has any information or insight he can offer even if it has to be done under the table. Surely, he’d be willing to help since he went into law enforcement himself. 

(Not that Gil could ever forget the boy called in his own father, warned the officer who came to the door even.)

Or. 

_Or_ , he and his team wait until the second body is discovered. He has no doubt one will be. The copycat chose The Quartet for a reason, and, with how meticulously he copied the original murders, it’s unlikely he will stop before he finishes out the set. 

Gil doesn’t see number two as an option at all. He picks up the phone and calls his contact at the FBI. 

It rings. And rings.

“Why, if it isn’t Gil Arroyo,” the man on the other end says with a chuckle. “I was starting to think I’d never hear from you again.”

To be fair, Gil used to keep in touch with him regularly. It didn’t seem so important in the last few years, though.

Not after Jackie. 

Gil clears his throat. “I wish it were under better circumstances,” he says, half-apologizing. “I’m looking to get in contact with another agent.”

“Don’t worry about it. Hit me with a name, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Closing his eyes, Gil thanks him silently. Of course Jim wouldn’t be too mad with him. Jim met Jackie once or twice. Was at her funeral. He probably understood. “Malcolm Whitly.”

Jim coughs as if he’s choking. “Just a moment,” he croaks.

With that, any hope Gil might have had for this avenue dissipates. 

“You’re looking for Special Agent Malcolm Bright,” Jim corrects as soon as he can breathe uninterrupted again. “Boy changed his name at some point, but you know how gossip spreads in law enforcement.”

Gil makes a note of it on a pad of paper, feeling a small pang of guilt for not knowing that already. He assumed the kid would’ve kept the name like his sister on the TV did. “Can you have him call me? Email, if that works better.”

“No can do.” Jim sighs. “Sorry, Gil, I wish I could help, but Bright was fired weeks back. People are still talking about how he stormed out of that meeting.”

 _Of course._ If only his case had started back then — not that Gil would ever really wish for a murder that daunting to happen during his vacation. Still, it’s not exactly the news he was hoping for. “I don’t suppose he left an address behind, huh?”

“Doubtful.”

It’s Gil’s turn to sigh. “Thanks for letting me know, Jim.”

There’s a hum of acknowledgement. “Don’t drop off the earth again on me, okay?”

“I make no promises,” Gil jokes lightly. He hangs up the phone and slams a hand on the desk. 

When he gets home, the house is quiet — quiet enough that he would worry, if not for the light on in the living room. He walks over, calling Malcolm’s name, and finds him dead asleep on the couch, dark circles under his eyes, and all three cats loafing on top of him. Snowball sits a little higher than the others, having picked the soft swell of his stomach to rest on. He’s only just started to show. They stare up at him, practically daring him to wake up their mattress.

Gil doesn’t have the heart to. Instead, he goes to the kitchen and pulls out all of the ingredients to make a quick stir fry. Whatever vegetables they still have in the fridge, some leftover raw chicken thighs, and some basics like ginger, garlic, and soy sauce. He throws together a quick teriyaki sauce and chops the chicken into smaller pieces to marinate in it while he preps the vegetables.

That’s as far as he gets before his thoughts get to him. 

First, the knife slips. Thankfully, it’s not the knife he was using to cut the chicken, so he gives his finger a quick rinse, a pat dry, and a bandaid to keep himself from bleeding all over the rest of their meal. 

Then, lost in thought and moving slower with the rest of the prep on account of the cut, he lets the oil heat too much, and it gets smoky. Acrid. 

He rushes to fix it. On the way to take the small wok off the burner and turn the heat off, the bowl with the chicken ends up tipped out over the counter. 

Gil curses, grabbing paper towel after paper towel to soak up the marinade spreading out across the surface and dripping down to the floor. 

“What happened?” Malcolm says with a yawn from the entryway. He’s quick to shoo the cats away from the mess, to take over with the paper towels so that Gil can scoop the chicken back into the bowl and put it aside. 

“Dinner,” Gil sighs. “How do you feel about takeout tonight?”

Malcolm carefully picks up some of the soaked towels and drops them into the trash. Most of the mess is gone now, just a light sheen of moisture that will undoubtedly dry tacky if they don’t finish cleaning it up now. He wanders out to the hall and grabs the cleaner.

(It doesn’t occur to Gil until later that Malcolm has settled here well enough to know where all of his cleaning supplies are without hesitation.)

“Sounds perfect.” Wiping up the rest of the marinade, Malcolm sprays down the counter, the side of the cabinets with the cleaner. “Why don’t you go order, and I’ll finish up here?”

Gil’s in the middle of transferring the chicken to a container to sit in the fridge, the counter having been clean enough that he’s comfortable serving it up another day but unwilling to use the bowl that sat half in the puddle. “Kid,” he says, exasperated, “you’re my guest, remember?”

But Malcolm gives him a flat look. “And _you_ have enough on your mind that you nearly started a grease fire. Go order food.”

When put that way… he listens. There are a number of restaurant numbers in his phone, nestled around JT, Dani, and the precinct’s numbers. He makes a mental note to get Malcolm a phone and soon. In the meantime, though, he taps on the number for a sub place and orders the same thing they ate last time — a meatball sub for him and a lighter turkey and swiss for Malcolm. And then he just sits down. Out of the way. 

Some amount of time later, he hears the doorbell. He starts to get to his feet.

Malcolm gets there first, shooting an unamused look over his shoulder. 

Gil sits right back down. It’s nice, in a way, to have someone there to look out for him again. Ever since Jackie died, ever since he threw himself head first into his work and ignored his home with the exception of his cats, he just… coasted. He knows for a fact he wouldn’t bother eating dinner at all tonight if not for Malcolm. The mess in the kitchen would have been the last straw in a much too stressful day. 

“Earth to Gil,” Malcolm says, waving a warm, foil-wrapped sub in his face. 

Dipping his head and chuckling, Gil takes the proffered food. “Sorry, kid.”

“Don’t be.” Malcolm sits on the couch next to him with his own dinner and delicately unwraps it. Then, quieter, he looks over at him and says, “Do you want to talk about it?”

And Gil finds he does. He tells him about his meeting with The Surgeon. He tells him about the sinking in his gut when he called his contact at the FBI, only to find out the son not only changed his name but was nowhere to be found. Not even a concern at the Bureau anymore. They washed their hands of him, and someone with the background Malcolm Bright has wouldn’t need to find another job anytime soon. 

“You said the rest of the family still lives here in the city, right?” Malcolm takes a nibble of his turkey sub and lays a tentative hand on Gil’s arm. “Maybe he went home.”

The thought has passed his mind, sure. Still… “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to pull Jessica Whitly back into this.”

Malcolm squeezes his arm but doesn’t comment, letting him talk it out.

“When I met her,” Gil continues softly, “her entire life was falling apart. She was under suspicion as an accomplice, the media was already calling for her kids to be taken away from her, her husband was in custody, and the team in charge of the case already found all the evidence they needed to pin him right in her basement.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Gil smiles at him. “I know. She knew it, too. Didn’t blame me the one time I checked in on her during her questioning, but, kid, I’m an important piece of a past I’m sure she’s trying to put behind her. A past I’d be bringing _right_ back to her doorstep. And as soon as she finds out I want to pull her son into it, too? I imagine Jessica Whitly has quite the backhand.”

There’s a few minutes where they just sit and eat, Malcolm’s hand still resting on his arm, the information sinking in and percolating. 

“I think you should do it,” Malcolm says eventually. He’s no longer really eating, his hunger gone, but he picks at his sub now and then.

Gil’s seen him do this a lot recently. It warms his heart to see how much Malcolm has thrown himself into taking care of his baby. He smiles a little and shakes his head. “It’s going to be a mess even getting in the door.”

“He’ll want to help,” Malcolm blurts out, looking right at Gil, his gaze sincere. “Based on everything you’ve told me about her son, I really think he will. He’s an adult now. Talk to him, and he can make his own decision.”

“...Okay.”

And that’s settled. Meeting Malcolm’s gaze, he knows he’ll be stopping by the Whitly home tomorrow.

It’s odd to be walking this pathway again. The Whitly house looms above him, not as welcoming as it once was, back when he was a beat cop with a long struggle up through the ranks ahead of him. Back when he answered the call that shot him past all of the barriers he expected to hit. 

Back when he listened to a child and escaped being The Surgeon’s newest victim. 

Gil rings the doorbell. 

The woman who answers the door is definitely _not_ Jessica Whitly.

“Lieutenant Arroyo here to see Mrs. Whitly,” he says, pulling out his badge, “about her son. Nothing bad, I promise.” He smiles politely. 

Surprisingly enough, she ushers him in with a wide smile and bids him to wait in the entry hall. 

Jessica Whitly comes scurrying from the way the woman left. It’s undeniably her, but she’s sharper in a lot of ways, her soft pastels traded for a tight black pencil skirt, a blouse with the top few buttons undone, and chunky gold jewelry. Her makeup, too, is sharper. She looks less the terrified housewife and more a woman at the top of her own empire. 

He nods at her, letting her look her fill. 

“So you’re a lieutenant now,” she says as she smoothes down her skirt. It’s more a fidget than anything conscious, as far as he can tell. There’s something uncomfortably hopeful in her eyes, too.

“I am.” Gil looks around. “Is your son home? I really need to talk to him.”

Her face falls. “I thought that’s why you were here,” she says tightly. 

Apparently his confusion is palpable, because her back straightens, her frown turning harsh. 

“I called the NYPD over a _week_ ago,” she explains. “I tried to file a missing persons report. They brushed me off. I’ve tried nearly every single day since. I even tried to call the FBI, Lieutenant, and they were no more helpful.”

Gil grimaces. “I hadn’t heard.” Moreover, he’s starting to wonder if her husband knew, too. It would certainly explain his behavior. He makes a note to call Claremont and talk to the man’s guard again, to pinpoint exactly when he started to act more agitated. 

“Of _course_ not. All the NYPD can see when they look at me and my children is their damn father. I told them all of his belongings arrived weeks ago. I told them that I haven’t heard a word from him since before they did.” She narrows her eyes. “If you’re not here about my report, I need you to leave.”

“But —”

“ _Leave_ , Lieutenant. Unless you have a warrant of some kind.”

Feeling utterly helpless, he does.

Of course, Malcolm picks up on his mood the moment he walks through the door. It’s better than it was earlier, but not by much. Gil spent hours trying to track down Malcolm Bright, and all he can manage without accusing him of something bad enough to get a warrant on him is to figure out that he left D.C. within twenty-four hours of being fired. He doesn’t bother to hide how frustrated he is.

“Didn’t go well?” Malcolm picks up Spooky, letting her climb up onto his shoulder. 

Gil laughs bitterly. “ _Apparently_ , Malcolm Bright has been missing ever since he got fired.”

Malcolm winces. “Did his family —”

“File a report? _Oh_ , his mother tried multiple times.” Gil rubs his temple, body sagging as all of it catches up to him. “And every attempt was ignored.” He drops down into one of the kitchen chairs, heavy and tired. 

“Hey,” Malcolm says, moving closer, “it isn’t your fault.”

Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it is. Gil’s not sure anymore. He remembers wanting to check up on the family again before the trial and after that night in interrogation. His superiors, on the other hand, insisted he keep his distance. Even after the trial, they cautioned him away from it, and he, aware that his position was still tenuous, that he could easily be fired or pushed into a rut if he made waves before really establishing himself, didn’t want to rock the boat.

Sometimes he wishes he had. 

A cat drops into his lap. Spooky _mmrps_ at the change of perch but quickly circles around until she finds a comfortable position to lay down in. 

And then a hand is on his cheek, coaxing his face up. Malcolm stares at him, sad. 

“Pretty sure I failed that kid,” Gil murmurs.

“I highly doubt it.” Brushing his skin with a gentle thumb, Malcolm doesn’t take his hand away. “You’re a good man, Gil.” He bites his lip. Leans in. 

Kisses Gil chastely. 

Gil leans into it. It feels both new and familiar at the same time, like they should have, could have been doing this so much earlier. “Lay down with me? Just for a nap, nothing more.”

No sex. Yet. It’s terrifying how easily they’ve slipped into whatever this is.

Malcolm nods. “We can eat later.” 

They wander to the master bedroom, where the two of them crawl under the covers facing each other and just _exist_ for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all liked this one!! Next chapter is also gonna be a very important one, and I can't wait to get it up for y'all <3


	9. Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil gets a call.
> 
> Malcolm gets a name.

A ringing wakes him. It’s persistent, piercing.

And then his pillow moves. Malcolm groans and opens his eyes, slowly realizing that his pillow is not a pillow at all but rather Gil’s chest. Sometime in the night they must have drifted closer and closer until they were cuddled together with Gil’s arm wrapped around him holding him tight. There’s a cat on his feet, too. Malcolm can’t say he minds it all. In fact, he doesn’t remember any nightmares last night. He certainly doesn’t remember waking up after they both drifted off. 

His stomach rumbles, reminding him they never ate, either. 

Gil reaches over and accepts the call with a sleepy frown. “Arroyo,” he says roughly. 

Although the sound of someone talking on the other end is audible, the words all run together into a muted slurry. Malcolm guesses it’s probably either Dani or JT about a case. He hesitantly snuggles closer to Gil, figuring he might as well enjoy this until Gil needs to get up and get dressed. 

But, instead of getting out of bed, Gil tightens the arm around him and ends the call with a faint _goodbye_. 

Malcolm lifts his head, concerned. “What is it?”

The look in Gil’s eyes is odd. Distant and focused all at the same time. Like he’s trying to piece something together, and that thing is Malcolm himself. “That was Sheriff Rudy,” he says slowly, quietly. “They found a car in the woods. It wasn’t visible from the road, because it went off and ended up in a deep ditch, sunken in some mud. The rain covered any tracks up.”

Malcolm stops breathing. He can almost smell it. Wet earth, the crisp scent of rain, and a whole lot of frustration.

“There was a wallet on the floor of the driver’s side.” Gil brushes soft brown hair away from familiar, vibrant blue eyes. “I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.”

“Gil,” Malcolm says weakly. “Please, I need to know.”

Something in Gil’s expression crumples, but he nods. “You’re a few weeks late, but you found your way home, Malcolm Bright.”

He wishes he could say it all comes back to him the moment he hears the name, but it sparks just as little as it had the night before, and Malcolm cups Gil’s cheek. There’s so much tension in his gaze. So much indecision. “Don’t pull away from me again,” he pleads. 

Last night was a step forward. Malcolm thought it was going to be what anchored him again after being thrown out into the unknown that day at Urgent Care. He thought that maybe he had a life figured out for himself, that it didn’t matter if he couldn’t remember his past. This morning’s call has threatened all of that, and he can practically feel Gil slipping through his fingers again. 

Because, when it comes down to it, Malcolm has no attachment to his family. Not right now, when he doesn’t remember a single thing before waking up on the wet forest floor. Gil is all the family he knows. Gil and his baby and all three cats. 

Malcolm’s not sure he can go back to not having all of them. 

After a moment of hesitation, Gil leans in and kisses him softly. “I’ll try not to.” He smiles, just a little. “Smack me upside the head if I start, okay, kid?”

They lay together quietly for another hour before breakfast and the precinct become too important to ignore. Malcolm, surprisingly, is the first to get up and nudge Gil into moving, too. He steps into the shower while Gil makes a quick breakfast. 

The water washes over him the way it did that day in the woods, and he closes his eyes, tilting his face right up into the spray. The shower chair is hard like packed earth underneath him.

His name is Malcolm Bright. 

According to Gil, he’s thirty-one years old. 

His father is The Surgeon, and he’s been at Claremont Psychiatric for over twenty years now — since Malcolm himself called the cops on him. Called Gil on him. His mother and sister are still in the city, too, though without any shackles. His sister Ainsley is a reporter. His mother is busy trying to find him. 

And Malcolm? Malcolm _was_ FBI. 

He shuts off the water and runs a hand over his dripping hair. He doesn’t feel like Malcolm Bright. He doesn’t feel like he was FBI or like he did this big, brave thing as a child. He doesn’t feel like he has anyone to worry about him other than Gil, and it’s disorienting to know and not be able to _connect_. 

Gil, however, believes it. There’s no reason not to trust the Sheriff, really, and the timeline matches up, too. 

It’s just… hard. 

Malcolm pulls on his thrifted clothes and wanders out of the bathroom. He takes a seat at the kitchen table as Gil pushes down the lever on the toaster. 

Gil must have been waiting for him, because there’s what looks like a cheese omelet already in the pan on the stove, a lid covering it and keeping it warm and gooey. Seeing Malcolm there, he smiles tiredly and leans down to kiss him again.

To reassure him he won’t be leaving. 

Malcolm clings to that. He’s not the same person he was back when he and Gil first met so many years ago, and he can see Gil actively working past that everytime they make eye contact. He knows it won’t be easy — for either of them — but there was more than just _something_ building between them before this hurdle. He needs to believe they’ll get over it. 

Together.

Once the plates are on the table, Gil sits down next to him and takes his hand, squeezing it once. “Will you be okay here today?” The look in his eyes says he’d stay home if need be, that he _wants_ to stay home.

Malcolm knows he shouldn’t, can’t. Not with The Surgeon’s copycat on the loose. Speaking of his father, too, well… maybe Malcolm can believe he was FBI, because the idea that’s been percolating in his mind for an hour now is born of a want to help, to save and protect. 

It’s also one that Gil will hate. 

He has to try it anyway. “Don’t worry about me,” Malcolm says, squeezing his hand. “Time alone to think before tonight would be good, anyway.” With his free hand, he takes a nibble of his toast. 

Tonight, the two of them are going to the Whitly house. That, they barely needed to discuss. Gil wanted to make things right, and Malcolm, for all that he can’t remember her, can’t help but feel his heart go out to Jessica Whitly and her grief over his disappearance. He knows he should feel more than that.

(He can’t even put a face to her name.)

“You have my number,” Gil returns. He picks at his own breakfast, clearly trying to prolong the time before he has to leave.

Malcolm puts his toast down. “Hey.” When he has Gil’s attention, he takes a deep breath and pushes forward. “I was thinking… about The Surgeon, and —”

But the time they’ve spent together, the time they’ve bonded, has served to let Gil know him well enough to realize exactly what’s about to come out of his mouth. “No,” Gil says firmly. 

Malcolm frowns. “But —”

“You’re not going to see him.” Gil’s face is serious, the lines around his mouth deeper with concern, the dips visible even with the goatee. “From what I found out, you stopped visiting him years ago, and it was the best thing for you. I’m not sending you in there now, even if you had your memories and _especially_ not with the baby to consider. JT, Dani, and I can solve this without him.”

“I know you can,” Malcolm concedes. He does. He knows they’re a good team, that they have a good solve rate. He also knows that Martin Whitly is desperate for his son. That said desperation could swing a bargain in their favor. He doesn’t want a serial killer to know he’s pregnant, of course, but there are lives he could save here. 

But Gil won’t budge, either. When he leaves for the precinct, he hugs Malcolm tight. “Please don’t do anything foolish while I’m gone, kid.”

Malcolm tugs him down for a kiss. “I won’t.”

It takes a combination of buses and even a train to get back to the little town where they met the second time around. He called the Sheriff station ahead of time, so they knew to expect him. Sheriff Rudy even promised he’d send someone over to pick him up from the closest stop.

It’s a surprise, however, to find Carl there waiting for him. The older man smiles at how much easier Malcolm is moving on his crutches now and pulls him into a tight hug as soon as they converge. “It’s good to see you again, son. Gil been treating you alright?”

“Better than,” Malcolm murmurs. He follows Carl to a familiar car. He knows his bump is visible through his clothes, that Carl must have noticed it, but he doesn’t ask. It warms Malcolm’s heart.

He does explain it. Not everything — he doesn’t particularly want to unpack all of the untouched baggage that came with finding out who he really is — but enough of the basics. It’s freeing to discuss it with someone else, someone not Gil and yet trustworthy and familiar. 

When Carl drops him off at the station, he gives Malcolm a wide grin. He can’t take him back to his stop, unfortunately, and so this is their parting. “Tell Gil I can wrangle up a crib for next year if you guys decide to come back for a few weeks.” 

“Thank you, Carl,” Malcolm says. He really does mean it. 

(And he really does hope they can, that they’re still together in a year.)

Another familiar face catches sight of him inside and waves him over to the Sheriff’s office with a friendly smile. It’s Deputy Joe. “I’ll be drivin’ ya back,” he says cheerfully. “Anything I can get ya in the meantime?”

Malcolm shakes his head with a light smile. 

Sheriff Rudy is sitting at his desk. He nods as soon as he sees Malcolm, hefting himself out of his chair and grabbing the handle of a pristine suitcase that was settled in the corner of the room. “We found this in the trunk. I’m afraid the car itself isn’t salvageable, Mr. Bright.” 

“Malcolm,” Malcolm says, shaking his head, because that name is still so foreign. 

The Sheriff nods kindly. He turns and grabs a leather wallet from the desk, handing that off as well. 

Malcolm flips through it. It’s untouched by the elements, having been inside the car the entire time, and he finds everything — his license, his insurance card, credit and debit cards. There’s some cash, too, and his head swims at the numbers he glimpses on the corners. 

Tucked behind the cash is a small picture. An ultrasound. His fingers skate across the small shape that curves out his stomach now. _That_ answers one of his bigger questions.

He clears his throat. “No phone?”

“Nope. Not in the car at least.” The Sheriff sits on the edge of his desk. “Best I can figure, you must’ve brought it with you when you walked away. It’s probably buried in the mud somewhere now.”

Malcolm nods. It’s most likely long since dead now, too, and that’s fine. He gets the feeling Malcolm Bright probably wasn’t the kind of person who took a lot of personal photos, anyway. He’ll get another. 

(He quietly notes the absence of a ring, too. He figured that was a longshot, figured he would have been wearing it if he had one, but it’s a relief all the same.)

Joe is happy to drive him back to his stop.

It’s agony, waiting to open the suitcase. He didn’t want to do it while he was there, not in the Sheriff’s office or the bathroom or the car. He didn’t want to open it on a bus or a train, either. 

He wants privacy, and Gil’s home fits the bill. 

The zipper is extremely loud in the quiet townhouse. Spooky watches the suitcase from the floor, her eyes following his hand as he pulls the metal tab around the perimeter. The other two poke their heads in at the sound but dismiss it just as quickly to go back to whatever they were already doing. 

His hand shakes as he rests it on top. All he has to do is look. Maybe there’s little bits and pieces of his life in here. Maybe seeing his own things again will spark something, remind him of who Malcolm Bright is. 

Spooky rubs against his leg. 

Malcolm flips the suitcase open. 

It’s… clothes. Carefully folded clothing tucked in the space. He takes it all out, marveling at the quality of it next to the clothes he’s been wearing for weeks now. It’s nice, yes, but not pinging anything. He’s not surprised to see some of it is in bigger sizes, too. Evidently, he was preparing for the baby he did indeed know was coming. There’s a bag of toiletries, too. Shampoo that doesn’t smell of much at all and looks expensive. A half-used tube of toothpaste. 

Underneath it all, padded by clothing and far away from the toiletries, though, is a laptop. It’s dead, of course. Malcolm plugs it in, but he doesn’t expect much from it. 

And, besides, he has more important things to do today. He picks some of the clothes out and changes right there in the living room, putting everything else except for the computer back in place. 

Spooky hops up into the suitcase and lays on it all. 

The cab driver gives him an odd look when he requests a ride to Claremont. 

Malcolm ignores it. He’s dressed like the man in the picture on his license, his clothes carefully chosen to be on the looser side, though not so loose that it would stick out immediately. He even slicked his hair back to complete the resemblance.

He feels like an imposter. All he wants to do is go back to Gil’s and curl up on the couch with a cat and his comfortable clothing.

The man behind the front desk gives him an even odder look when Malcolm tells him just who he’s there to see. “You aren’t on the schedule,” he says bluntly, still eying Malcolm up like he belongs in these walls for a very different reason.

But Malcolm stands firm. “My name is Malcolm Bright. I should be on the permanent visitor list.” At least, he thinks he probably is. From what Gil told him, it seems unlikely Martin Whitly would have taken his name off. 

He hasn’t. 

The man behind the desk shakes his head but calls for a guard to escort him to The Surgeon’s room. 

Malcolm follows the guard silently. They stop at a door with a window, one that shows a hallway ending in another door. It shouldn’t surprise him just how much security is on his father, but it startles him nevertheless. 

Another guard opens the outer door from the inside. He freezes when he sees Malcolm. “I was hoping you wouldn’t come back,” he says quietly. “Why now?”

Malcolm bites his lip. He doesn’t know this man, though it’s obvious he knows Malcolm. “I needed to.”

The guard nods solemnly and moves to open the next door. The first locks automatically. 

“Mr. David,” a man snaps, clearly fed up, “I told you I didn’t want visitors.”

Malcolm stores that name away. The voice should be familiar, he realizes.

Martin Whitly turns around with narrowed eyes that widen in the silence that stutters to a halt between them once he sees just _who_ has come to see him. His expression is blank for a few seconds. It gradually warms, a grin splitting his face. “My boy.”

Although the words make his heart ache, there are no hints of a memory. No flashes that hit him as he takes in the sight of the man in front of him. Malcolm isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not. “Dr. Whitly,” he says neutrally. 

“Oh, Malcolm,” Martin responds. “It’s _Dad_. There are no formalities between us.” He takes a few steps forward, stopping only because the cable holding him prevents him from going further. 

Malcolm stares at him. Something is screaming at him, insisting he take a step back. This man is dangerous. Malcolm stays where he is. “You know why I’m here.” 

“What? We can’t catch up a little first?” Martin gives him a sad look. It feels engineered to Malcolm, but it would probably fool most. “It’s been ten years, son.” He looks him up and down. “And you don’t look too good.”

His heart skips a beat. Malcolm reminds himself the crutches and the clothes obscure his bump. “I didn’t come here for a personal visit.” Theories are forming in his mind. They’re built on little things he’s picking up, little things he suspects his father is failing to hold back more than actively showing. It’s odd, now, to know these insights of his are probably a result of his training. This is, _was_ his job. 

“Don’t be like that,” his father says smoothly, the slightest hint of scolding in his tone.

And Malcolm… Malcolm gambles. “I wouldn’t be here if not for the case. If you insist on wasting my time, I’ll leave and give Gil what I’ve already been able to glean without your cooperation.”

It pays off. There’s a fury in Martin’s eyes as he names Gil. A desperation as it sets in that Malcolm _will_ leave. “You can’t _seriously_ believe I had anything to do with new murders.” He chuckles and gestures to his cell. “I’m sure Mr. David can attest to that. I don’t exactly get out much.”

“You consult.” Malcolm takes a step forward. He’s just out of arm’s reach, or he would be, if not for the cuffs that keep his father’s hands close to his body. “You talk to doctors and patients all over the world. It would be easy enough to share the details of your murders. This new murder aligns too closely to yours to be a coincidence. There are things the NYPD never released publicly, but all of these intricacies are there.”

All things Gil admitted while venting. It’s certainly coming in handy now.

His father’s fake pout falls. His stare seems to cut right through Malcolm. “There’s something _off_ about you.”

“Give me a name,” Malcolm fires back. 

“Malcolm —”

Fed up, Malcolm goes to his bookshelf and grabs for the stack of files, his crutches leaned up against the wall. He narrows them down himself based on the age grouping his instincts tell him the copycat likely falls in. He puts the women aside, too, guessing it’s a man. 

Martin pulls against his restraints. “What are you doing?”

“Getting the answer myself.” Malcolm picks out five patient files and holds them out. “Tell me which one, and I’ll… I’ll come back to visit again.”

His father stares at him and considers it. “Tell me what’s going on, and I’ll cooperate.”

“As soon as you give me a name,” Malcolm agrees, because it’s not like he walked in here thinking he’d be able to hide his lack of memory for long. This man is his father. He knows Malcolm much, much more than Malcolm knows himself right now.

(The pregnancy, though? That, he’ll keep from his father for as long as possible.)

That cinches it. Although he grits his teeth, Martin points out the file labeled _Carter Berkhead_. 

Malcolm returns the others, tucking the right one under his arm. He turns to the door and then stops. “The reason you feel something is off with me, Dr. Whitly, is the fact that I have amnesia.” He glances back at him. “I don’t remember you _at all._ ”

As he walks down the hall, Mr. David silent at his side, he can hear the muffled scream of his name.

Over and over again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go!! Finally, after 26k, they finally find out who Malcolm is :D 
> 
> There's still more for them to work through, of course. I hope y'all enjoyed the way this played out so far! I'm not sure how many more chapters it'll be, but we're in the second half for sure.


	10. Reunions, Part Deux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm and Gil go to see Jessica. 
> 
> Lots of tears follow.

Gil, of course, is far from pleased with his plan. 

Malcolm gives him a tight smile when he finds him outside of Claremont, leaning against the Le Mans with a strained look on his face, his whole disposition more tense than it was that morning. “I’m sorry?” He doesn’t offer the file. Not yet. 

Rubbing his temples, Gil sighs. It’s exhausted. Worried. “No,” he says finally, “you’re not. And you don’t have to be. I noticed you didn’t promise me anything.” He pushes off the car and wraps Malcolm up in a tight hug, careful not to put too much pressure on his midsection but otherwise holding him with a strong grip. “You’re an adult, Malcolm. Just, _please_ tell me you were cautious.” 

Malcolm pulls away from the embrace enough to cup Gil’s jaw and look him right in the eye. “I was the epitome of caution. As far as I could tell, Dr. Whitly hasn’t realized I’m pregnant.” He tilts his head a touch. “He would have had the higher ground if he mentioned it. Would have broken my composure, and I’m sure he’d know that. There was no reason for him to not mention it if he noticed.”

“Don’t go back,” Gil says quietly. 

He doesn’t want to, honestly. There’s nothing there for him. He doesn’t remember his father, and not a single moment of their meeting just now made him want to reforge that connection.

But, this he _did_ promise. Although Malcolm may not know much about himself, he doesn’t get the feeling he’s much of a deal breaker. Usually. He’ll go back once and just the once. 

Gil doesn’t look too surprised with his silence. Even more worried, yes. 

“I made a deal with him,” Malcolm confesses. “One more visit, and he’d give me this.” He takes his hand away from Gil’s face now, already missing the soft brush of his goatee, the warmth of his skin, to hold up the file he took from his father’s cell. 

“What is it?” Gil takes the file, though, flipping it open. 

“Your copycat,” Malcolm says. “Carter Berkhead. He’s a patient of Dr. Whitly’s, and I suspect he’s using The Quartet to mask his real intentions. Whoever his final victim will be is someone close to him. Someone who hurt him or damaged his ego. I’m not quite sure about that yet, but it should be enough of a lead to stop the next murder.”

Because that’s what he needed to do. He couldn’t sit by and wait while someone else was murdered. Not when there was a solution within his grasp. 

Which, actually, makes him think. “Wait, were you keeping an eye on the visitation list?”

“Yeah, kid.” Gil does smile now, though it’s not as wide or bright as it usually is. “I was hoping to find a connection this way. Imagine my surprise when I get the call that _Malcolm Bright_ is in with The Surgeon.”

Malcolm leans forward to kiss him softly. “Thank you for not pulling me out.” He knows Gil could have. Easily. He could have cited the very likely connection between Dr. Whitly’s visits and voice calls and the copycat to stop it and all other visits from anyone. 

Gil presses their foreheads together. “How about lunch before I drop you off?”

Part of Malcolm itches to suggest he doesn’t. He wants to be there for the collar, to see Berkhead put in cuffs and stopped. He also knows Gil would never agree to that, and, this time, he’s got every right to stop a civilian from interfering with an active murder investigation. 

“Can we eat at home? I want to change out of these clothes.” They’re uncomfortable, so very much not like anything he’s gotten used to wearing since he woke up in that forest. He wants to be in his thrifted pajamas with cats winding around his ankles and Gil at his side. 

Gil grins at his word choice. This time, it’s a full one, too. He gives Malcolm a peck on the lips and smoothes a hand over his gelled hair with an amused look. “Of course, kid. Let me call JT and Dani first.” He pulls away to get into the driver’s side but stops once he opens the door, his expression sober once again. “I expect to talk strategy for your next visit later. I won’t stop you, but I want you to be prepared.”

Malcolm nods. “I promise I’ll wait until we can talk.”

And he will. He doesn’t even need to promise it. 

The longer Martin Whitly stays in the dark, the better.

Washing off Malcolm Bright, son of The Surgeon, fired FBI Special Agent is a relief. He showers as soon as Gil leaves for the precinct, where Dani is researching Berkhead. To his understanding, JT started keeping tabs on the man as soon as they got the call. 

With any luck, Berkhead will be in cuffs before the afternoon is out. 

Malcolm soaps up his hair again to make sure all of the gel is gone. He tilts his head downwards and closes his eyes as the spray washes all of the suds down the drain. He’s not sure he’ll do that again. Knows, at least, that he won’t be doing it tonight. He can’t. Maybe it would comfort Jessica Whitly to see her son the way she likely often saw him, but there’s nothing that could get him back into a suit today. He’s grown accustomed to having his hair loose and his clothes soft, worn. 

Brushing the wet curtain of his hair out of his face, he grabs the body wash and takes his time with it. He especially slows down when he reaches his stomach. Despite knowing it was still there, he missed the sight of his bump in those clothes. It’s so _small_ yet. He splays his hand across it, strokes the wet skin with his thumb. He still has no idea who his baby’s father is. He doesn’t know if he wanted to become pregnant or if he adapted when he got the news. 

What he does know is that Gil will be there for him. Them. That no matter how this meeting with his mother will go, his baby will have people in their corner, protecting them and loving them. 

He rinses his body and shuts the water off. The towel, old and fraying at one end, is a comfort against the chill of droplets trailing down his skin. He dries himself off, slips on a pair of boxer briefs, and grabs his crutches. 

There’s a black paw under the door. It grasps at the wood, taps at it. 

Malcolm laughs and feels so light. He opens the door slowly, watching the paw retreat, his little dark shadow laying on her back on the carpet. 

Spooky follows him back to the main bedroom. Together, they curl up in Gil’s blanket and rest. 

A gentle shake wakes him. There’s still light streaming through the bedroom window, but it’s not as bright as it was when he went to sleep. Malcolm stretches out with a soft groan, blinking up at Gil, who smiles warmly. 

“Hey, sleeping beauty,” Gil jokes. 

Malcolm sits up, the blanket slipping down to pool around his bump. “Did you catch him?”

“Berkhead?” Gil shakes his head. His gaze snaps to the spread of bare skin in front of him, and he swallows. “We’ve got eyes on him and Martin, but it might take time. We’re not sure how long he plans to wait between murders.”

“And my father’s slipped information to him under the radar before,” Malcolm continues. Although he frowns, he knows it was a long shot. It could take weeks to catch him depending on whether or not he notices the surveillance. Or maybe he’s chickened out and won’t complete The Quartet.

(If only they could be so lucky.)

“Claremont is looking at him extra close now,” Gil says as he sits on the edge of the bed. He’s still in the same clothes he was wearing earlier in the day. He puts a hand on Malcolm’s leg over the blanket. “Don’t worry about it. We have it under control.”

Malcolm leans back against the pillows. “Lay with me for a while?”

“We should head over to the Milton mansion soon,” Gil says, but he’s already shedding his slacks and slipping under the covers on the other side of the bed. He tugs Malcolm close, just as they woke up that morning. 

It’s blissful. Malcolm rests his head on the soft knit of his sweater. One of his legs slots between Gil’s, skin to skin. His bump is cradled up against a warm hip. They’re joined by a cat soon after, though neither of them try to look down and see just which one is laying around their legs. 

They just… exist together for a while. 

Gil smoothes a hand over Malcolm’s soft hair. “We could go another day,” he offers. There’s a certain reluctance in his voice, however. A guilt. It’s important to him, too, and especially seeing as there’s a part of him Malcolm suspects he’ll never be able to reassure. He’s _insistent_ that he failed Malcolm. That he shouldn’t have kept his distance all those years ago. 

Malcolm pushes himself up onto his elbow and kisses Gil languidly. He trails along the seam of his lips until he’s allowed in, drawing out the kiss, trying to put as much comfort into it as he can. Although it sounds like a lovely idea, he knows they shouldn’t wait. “I think I’m ready,” he says and punctuates it with a shorter, shallower kiss. A small smile spreads across his face. “We can lay in when we get home.”

The way Gil’s face melts is a reward in of itself, a confirmation that he’s making the right decision. “Sounds good, kid.”

When they arrive at the mansion, the Le Mans quieting down with the turn of a key, the two of them sitting there in the dark looking up at the well-lit house, Malcolm reaches over for Gil’s hand, not entirely sure who he’s trying to reassure. His other finds his bump. 

He wishes he could say that looking up at the building did anything for him. He wishes it sparked something, made him think of family and home, gave him some better insight into who he is, but there’s nothing there that wasn’t circling in his head back at Gil’s — back _home_. Maybe it would have been better if he dressed up in a suit, like Gil suggested once they finally got out of bed. He just didn’t want to approach this the way he had visiting his father. That was an act, a mission, and a battle all rolled into one.

This is his mother, who, on all accounts, was someone he had _much_ less conflicting feelings for. 

Gil squeezes his hand. “C’mon, kid. I’m sure someone’s noticed my car out here by now,” he says gently. In contrast to Malcolm, he’s in finer clothes than usual. His sweater is newer, snug with the collar of a dress shirt poking out from the top, and his slacks are fresh. He’s nervous. 

Malcolm bites his lip and nods. It’s nerve-wracking to let go of him for the mere moments it takes to get out of the car and meet once again, Gil holding out his crutches for him. The door ahead is large and daunting. 

Behind it, his mother is living her life unknowing of who’s about to walk through the door. 

He takes a small step forward. And then another. A third. His crutches make soft thuds against the driveway.

Gil is beside him the entire way up to the door. He raps on the surface when Malcolm stands still. 

It takes no more than ten seconds for someone to appear there. Clearly, they were noticed. The woman there opens her mouth as soon as she sees Gil — and gapes when she notices Malcolm beside him. Her hand drifts up to cover it. “Mr. Bright!” Quickly, she steps back, holding the door open for the two of them. There are the beginnings of tears in her eyes. “Welcome home.”

Malcolm gives her a stilted smile. He knows this isn’t his mother, of course, because they look absolutely nothing alike. He also knows that he should know her. All of the little things about her reaction are pinging in his mind, insisting that they must be acquainted. Probably for years. Maybe she worked for his mother before he moved out, even. 

Not a single name comes to him. 

“Is Mrs. Whitly in?” Gil’s hand is warm in his, and his closeness is grounding. 

The woman nods. “Follow me,” she says, giving Malcolm a lingering look of relief. 

They walk with her through the entrance hall and down past a few closed doors until they reach what seems to be a study. Bookshelves line the walls. There’s a large sectional positioned around a fireplace. A desk is situated on the other side of the room, and standing by it is a lithe woman in a dark red dress. Her hair, long and brown, is tucked behind one ear adorned with a golden hoop. She holds a tumbler full of amber liquid in one hand, the bottle in the other, and, with a smooth movement, splashes another finger into the glass. 

Two things happen simultaneously. 

For Malcolm’s part, he takes in the shape of her face and the tiredness in her eyes. He knows, logically, that this is his mother. His gut tells him the same thing. He recognizes the lines and curves. Knows instinctively he’d find some of the same if he looked in a mirror. 

The spark is snuffed out before it can grow into anything more substantial. No memories come with her face. No scents or sounds or sensations. Just awareness. 

She turns to see who arrived at the very same time. The bottle of liquor is set safely on the desk next to her, but the glass in her hand slips through numb fingers to crash to the floor, thankfully still intact. The booze inside spills all over her feet and the hardwood. It draws a yelp out of her, makes her step back.

Then, she’s rocketing forward and wrapping trembling arms around him and his crutches. “Malcolm,” she says thickly. “You’ve been missing for weeks. I thought you were _dead_!”

He tentatively returns the embrace. “We have a lot to talk about, Mother.” The title slips out of him like he’s been saying it all his life. 

(He probably has.) 

She stills against him and pulls away, hands resting on his upper arms, sharp eyes taking all of him in. Inevitably, they snap down to the swell of his stomach. It’s unlikely she didn’t feel it during their hug. Her grip tightens. “You couldn’t pick up a phone?” Although her words are edged, her gaze is murky with tears, and her frown is shaky, like she’s trying not to burst out into tears. 

Malcolm gives her a wry smile. “I wouldn’t have known who to call,” he says quietly. 

Her brow furrows. Letting go of him with one hand, she gently dabs under her eyes with her knuckle and shifts to face Gil. “Thank you for bringing him home, Lieutenant. You’re free to go.”

“Actually,” Malcolm cuts in as he reaches up to place a hand on her arm, “he should stay. He can help me explain.”

She looks at him searchingly. “I think I should call your sister.” She doesn’t move, though, touching him as if he’ll disappear the second she isn’t, as if this is some crazy dream that’ll slip through her fingers like the tumbler the moment she lets go of it. 

“We’ll be here,” he says, soft and light.

Clearing her throat, she removes her hand and gestures towards the sectional. “Please, sit down in the meantime.” The clack of her heels is oh so loud in the room. She steps around the mess on the floor to get to the cell phone resting on the desk by the bottle. She taps at it, holds it up to her ear. 

Gil tugs Malcolm over to the sectional. He sits down and pats the cushion right next to him. 

Malcolm sits there. He leans against him without hesitation, drawing strength from their connection. 

“Get over here _now_ ,” his mother hisses across the room. “This is more important than whatever community fluff piece they have you preparing for now.”

Gil lays an arm over his shoulder and turns his head to kiss his temple. 

When his mother joins them again, she looks slightly more composed. “Your sister will be here in a few minutes.” She takes a swig right from the bottle. “Your belongings are all at the loft — except for that wretched bird, of course.” She sniffs. “She’s upstairs in your old room. Luisa has been feeding her.” She tips the bottle back again. Her eyes linger on the way the two of them are pressed up against each other. 

The wait is awkward. 

Malcolm’s not sure what to say, if there’s anything at all for him to say. He wishes there was something he could offer her. Some part of her son he could give as comfort, but there’s nothing else sparking here —

Until a blonde woman comes striding through the doorway, an inpatient scowl on her face, her hair falling in waves away from her face, a crisp, blue pantsuit covering her frame. 

It’s still not much, but Malcolm gets that same inkling of familiarity at the sight of her. He knows immediately that she’s the younger of the two of them. 

The way her face freezes, her eyes widen, her lips spreading out in a wide smile all points to the relationship between them. “Malcolm,” she shrieks as she closes the distance. 

He finds himself standing up and initiating the hug himself this time. It’s still awkward, but his heart warms at the way she sinks into his arms. 

_This_ is his baby sister.

...Now if only he could remember her name. 

“Ainsley, not so tight,” their mother says, teary-eyed once again. 

_Ainsley’s fitting_ , Malcolm thinks. He can tell the moment when it registers for his sister that they’re not the only ones in the embrace. He smiles genuinely when she steps back, fingers ghosting over the shape of his child under his shirt. 

“Bro?”

Carefully, he sits back down and clears his throat. “Surprise?” He winces. “I’m sure I didn’t mean to tell you like this.”

Gil puts a soothing hand on the back of his neck. 

Malcolm takes strength in it. “I _may_ have amnesia.”

His mother drinks at least a finger’s worth right from the bottle, clearly having already had an idea of what he was going to say. 

His sister, on the other hand, has only been in the room for moments. Her face falls. “What?”

“He does have amnesia,” Gil clarifies. “I took him in as a favor to a friend without realizing who he was.” He locks glances with Jessica as he says it. 

Her face is blank, but she nods.

And so they explain. Mostly Malcolm lets Gil do it, busy soaking up the room around him and the presence of his family. He does take over now and then. 

No, he doesn’t know who the father is.

No, there was no indication anyone else is looking for him.

Yes, he’s been in New York for some time now. 

Yes, he _swears_ he would have called if he remembered any numbers or names. 

“I’ll have Luisa put fresh sheets on your bed,” his mother says eventually. She finally loosens the white-knuckled grip she had on the bottle and puts it down. “I’ll contact your old therapist. She might have an idea of what to do about your —” She gestures at her head weakly. “You’ll need an appointment at your old OB, too. And a new phone.”

Malcolm smiles but shakes his head. “Actually, I was planning on going back home with Gil tonight,” he murmurs. He watches it all play across her face. 

Frustration. Worry. Despair. Begrudging acceptance. 

With a heavy sigh, she nods. “I expect you both for dinner tomorrow.” Her words have a finality to them. 

“Not a problem,” Gil agrees.

Malcolm glances at Ainsley. 

She’s been quiet. Observant. “I need your address, Lieutenant.” 

Gil gives it to her. He accepts her tight hug, too, patting her back as she clutches at him and thanks him for bringing her brother back to them. 

Malcolm gets a hug, too. It’s a gentler one this time, mindful of his bump and his crutches, but there’s no less feeling in it. 

“He seems good for you,” she says into his hair. 

“He is.”

His mother hugs him for even longer. “A grandchild,” she says tearfully when they part. “Oh, _Malcolm_.”

He grins and looks at Gil. “Yes, a grandchild.”

The two of them walk out to the Le Mans once more. There’s a levity between them that wasn’t there earlier. They get into the car in comfortable silence and start the journey home.

Two blocks down, Gil’s cell rings. 

Malcolm picks it up. 

“Boss,” JT says on the other end, “we nailed him.” 

“He’s driving right now,” Malcolm explains. He shares a hopeful glance with Gil. “You’re talking about Carter Berkhead, right?”

“Yup. Caught him sneaking out of his fancy mansion to go after his second victim. Tell Gil we got it handled.”

Malcolm does. 

Once they feed the cats their dinner, they fall into bed and curl up together for soft kisses and gentle caresses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, life has been HECTIC with the holidays! I'm hoping it only takes me about a week to get the next one up, but forgive me if it takes a bit longer! :D 
> 
> Also... would you guys believe there's only 1-2 chapters left?? Wild, I know, but I was looking at my outline, and most everything is wrapped up!
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed this one


	11. An End to All Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas 2019, and things are getting wrapped up.

## Four Months Later

Life with Gil as Malcolm Bright is much as it was as just Malcolm — at least where it matters. 

The sun streams through the gaps of the blinds, laying stripes of pure light across his face. His nose twitches. He frowns and shifts to bury his face against Gil’s skin. If he can just get a bit more sleep, his day will start off on a good note, but, of course, his son has other plans, pushing up against his bladder before his eyelids can droop. He wiggles out from underneath Gil’s sleep-heavy arm and eases off the bed with one hand on his swell. 

And at nearly full term, it’s certainly a large one. Regular meals have helped, too. In fact, according to his doctor, he’s healthier than he has been since he was a child. His OB has few complaints about his progress. His mother is beyond pleased. Gil is happy.

_Malcolm_ is content. 

His life isn’t perfect. He still hasn’t gotten all of his memories back, and, at this point, he’s not sure he will. His mother and sister help him there, but they can’t tell him everything. His time at the FBI is mostly gone — including who the father of his baby is by blood. By blood, because Gil will be the father in every way that matters, having been there at his side for months taking care of and loving the both of them. 

(The doubt still creeps up. It still nags at him in the middle of the day when he’s at home with no one but Sunshine and the cats to keep him company. Is someone mourning him? Did he leave a relationship behind? 

Did he even get the chance to tell them he was pregnant?) 

He pads back to the bedroom with a slight yawn. It’s the kind of yawn that signifies his body is tired. His mind, on the other hand, is already awake and won’t be settling down again anytime soon. 

Gil matches his yawn with a little wave. He scratches at the edge of his goatee as he blinks away the last bits of sleep. “Mornin’,” he says, voice rough. He doesn’t bother pointing out that Malcolm is up early. 

Malcolm is _always_ the first to wake, especially now that their son is too big to not push against his insides with every shift and stretch. 

On the plus side, it means they usually have more time for themselves before Gil has to be at the precinct. 

The bed dips as Malcolm climbs back in. He gladly lets himself be pulled in close, skin against skin, his stomach the only thing preventing them from touching all down the length of his body. Their lips meet, slow and soft and sleepy. “Morning,” he murmurs when they part. 

Gil smiles. One of his hands rests on the bump concealing the child between them. “I have —” He glances at the alarm on the nightstand. “— Two hours today.”

“That late?” It wasn’t going to be an early morning, and Malcolm knew that. There was little Gil doesn’t tell him about his day. The FBI coming in to take over his newest, biggest case was one of the things he shared, especially since Malcolm’s consultations led to it being blown open in the first place. Still, he expected Gil and his team would have to go in early to hand off the evidence and all they’ve worked on so far. 

Gil hums, settling his head back on the pillow. “Special Agent Swanson won’t arrive until then. Unless they call me in, there’s no reason to show up beforehand.”

_Swanson_. It’s familiar. Malcolm lets the name roll around in his brain. Doesn’t force it to go anywhere. If there’s one thing he’s learned about his missing memories, it’s that he can’t push too hard. He’s barely aware of Gil brushing his hair out of his face with a light hand. “Colette Swanson?” he hears himself ask. There’s not much there, just the knowledge that they were far from friends. He honestly can’t even remember her face. “Does she know I was consulting?”

It was difficult to not get involved in the Junkyard Killer case. With Malcolm’s own mother being a target of his attention, there was no way to keep his name off it. Gil, Dani, and JT could all attest to the fact that he had no idea there was a connection when he asked the team to look into his father’s old car for him. He himself has had a security detail ever since they first knocked that whole box over. It wasn’t even a question of _if_. Neither Malcolm nor Gil wanted to put their child at risk.

“Your name’s in the file.” That was the extent of it, really. Malcolm doesn’t go into the field with Gil, never has, and that won’t be changing anytime soon. “I’m guessing she’s not a friend of yours.”

Malcolm shrugs. “I can’t say I’m feeling any warm fuzzies,” he says dryly. 

“Let me fix that,” Gil says as he brings their mouths together. He turns towards Malcolm, the swell of their child cradled between them, and deepens it, coaxing his mouth open. “How’s that?” His breath ghosts across Malcolm’s lips. 

“Hmm, not warm enough.” With that, Malcolm pushes forward for another kiss. There’s something less tense about his partner today, something he suspects has to do with the handing off of the Junkyard Killer case. The FBI has resources Gil doesn’t have. They might be able to solve this faster, to let him spend more time at home while they do, and that, especially now that his due date is fast approaching, is something they’re both craving. It must still sting to have it taken off his hands, but this here is more important. 

Gil smirks against his mouth, having obviously picked up on what he was angling for. The hand he had on Malcolm’s bump slides over to his side. His thumb brushes over the skin there. Even with the liberal use of the fancy lotion Jessica gifted him, there are little white lines skittering across his hips and around his stomach. Paler than his skin, they form lightning trails that Gil can’t help but trace, and he does so now, delighting in the shiver it pulls from Malcolm. “How about now?”

Tilting his head, Malcolm pretends to think about it. “Not quite.”

“Then I’ll just have to try harder, huh?” Instead of going in for another kiss, Gil elects to lay a series of soft, closed mouth pecks along Malcolm’s jaw down to his neck. There, he nips at old love bites. He scrapes his teeth against healing hickies. He reaches down and cups Malcolm’s stiff cock. “I can take care of this, too, kid.”

“If you have enough time,” Malcolm says breathlessly. 

Gil captures his nipple between his teeth, gives it a light tug before releasing it. “For you? I’ll make time.” Carefully, he helps Malcolm shift over onto his other side so that Gil is behind him, the bed still cradling him where he needs it. They’re both nude already. Gil cups his cheeks and spreads them to reveal his puffy hole from the night before, but he doesn’t go to it right away. He strokes his side. He places kisses across his shoulders. He follows the line of his spine, lays his lips on the curve of his ass. 

“Fuck, Gil,” Malcolm murmurs, squirming, trying to push back into him. 

Chuckling, Gil leans in and licks a stripe from his perineum up to his hole. He wastes no time in pointing his tongue and flicking at the swollen muscle, tasting the muskiness he’s come to associate with Malcolm, his hands holding both his legs and cheeks open. There are remnants of himself there, too. He cleans it all up as he coaxes him to loosen up, because, although he’d love to spend his entire morning this way, buried between Malcolm’s legs using nothing but his tongue to wring out as many orgasms as possible, they don’t have _that_ kind of time. 

Malcolm sighs happily at the cursory swipe of lube along his rim.

Spreading a dollop over his cock with one hand, Gil tosses the bottle back towards the nightstand with the other and lays down behind Malcolm. His slick length nudges up against his clenching hole. One little push, and he’s sliding in, his chest molding to Malcolm’s back, his mouth finding the crook of his neck once more. The sex is good and lazy this way, languid and loving and _satisfying_. Gil rolls his hips. He noses at Malcolm’s ear. He reaches around and fists his cock where it curves against his bump. “Love you like this.”

Malcolm wraps an arm back and around to clutch at Gil’s head. “God, do I love you,” he gasps. “Faster, please, Gil.”

He works his hips a little harder. There’s no real depth to be gotten this way, just the slight push and pull, the shift of his cock against Malcolm’s walls. The teasing strokes of his hand make the real difference. He jerks him steadily, firmly now, the goal less to prolong this and more to bring him the release he needs. “Come for me, kid. I want you full of me while I’m gone.”

Malcolm moans soft and long as his cock spurts in Gil’s grip. 

The pulsing of his body brings Gil over shortly after. They lay there together until time is truly getting short, and Gil has to pull away to shower and face the FBI. 

Of course, it _is_ the city. The precinct doesn’t get slow the way the sheriff’s station in their little retreat does, and another case — a very sensitive one — crosses Gil’s desk before he even makes it in, causing him to change directions and head out to a hotel. 

He hates cases that involve other cops. 

He hates that Special Agent Swanson will be waiting even longer. He knows that won’t help things between his team and hers.

And Gil? Gil especially hates that even over the phone, Malcolm is the only one who’s pinpointed the truth beyond the cloud of potential corruption. He knows he shouldn’t have taken the scene as is. Should have thought more about it, but the FBI takeover looms over his head yet, clouding his mind.

He walks into the precinct for the first time that day with the weight of a cop murder on his shoulders. 

“Lieutenant Arroyo,” an unimpressed woman says as he opens the door to his office. “I’m Special Agent Colette Swanson.”

Hanging up his coat, Gil can already tell this won’t be going well. “Let me show you to the files.”

She watches him with a flat mouth. “Oh, I’ve already seen the files. At eight. When you and your team were _supposed_ to be here. Thankfully, Detective Powell was here early, and so was I.”

Gil hides his grimace behind a tight smile. “Is there anything else you need? I apologize for being late — I was needed at a case.”

She hms, takes a slow couple of steps closer to his desk. “What I _need_ is to talk to your witnesses myself. Have Malcolm Bright and Jessica Whitly come in.” Giving him one last look, she heads back to the door. “Sooner rather than later, Lieutenant.”

He hates this, too.

It’s a slow day, but, really, they all are for Malcolm nowadays. He usually takes the mornings to himself once Gil leaves. He putters around the house petting cats and taking care of Sunshine in her _no cats allowed_ room (which is a struggle in of itself, but they’ve managed so far). Many of his own belongings have found a place here, too, so he has plenty of crime texts to read, countless pieces of classic literature to peruse, and even weapons to polish, if he’s in the mood for it. 

Sometimes his father calls. Or tries to. It comes up as _Claremont Psychiatric_ every time, and Malcolm never answers. If there’s anything anyone in administration needs to tell him, they’d contact his mother first. Anything his father has to say doesn’t matter. Oh, Malcolm kept his promise. He went back — for one visit. He sat in a plastic folding chair, his jacket in his lap masking his bump, and listened as Martin prattled on about how much he missed their talks and how excited he was to help him solve crimes. 

Malcolm stayed for a half an hour. He barely said a word. There was a distant part of him that felt some measure of affection for the man in front of him, but on the whole, Martin Whitly was a stranger. At the end of that half an hour, he stood up, said his goodbyes over his father’s increasingly frantic rebuttals, and left with furious shouts trailing after him. He rarely listens to the voicemails from the man, either. He only watched the interview once. Not even the ranting Ainsley’s accusations pulled out of him sparked any desire to reconnect, though he found himself sure his father was convinced he cared about Malcolm. Whether or not it’s true, he’s not so sure.

There are also calls from Gil. Malcolm knows his help isn’t necessary, not really. Gil and his team have been solving cases on their own for years, and their solve rate has only quickened a bit since he started consulting. He’s confident they would have noticed the things he had without him. But he loves helping. _Gil_ loves him helping. 

(Except, of course, when it leads to realizations none of them are happy considering. 

Malcolm hopes they find their cop killer soon.)

Usually, he only gets one of those calls in the morning. Maybe another in the afternoon, but never within an hour or two, which means he’s surprised to see Gil’s name light up his phone screen. Malcolm coaxes Sunshine back into her cage as he answers it. “Hey.”

“Hey, kid,” Gil says, and his voice is laden with tension. “I just got off the phone with your mom, and Adolpho is bringing her over to the house to pick you up. Your security team already knows.”

Malcolm feels his brows draw together. “What’s happening?”

“Special Agent Swanson,” Gil says flatly. “She’s insisting on it.”

“I’ll get dressed.”

His mother talks his ear off in the car, unintentionally betraying just how nervous she is. Both he and Gil have offered to get her set up at their house or a safe house more than once, but she refused every single time, insisting she would never allow herself to be taken from her home, crazy killer friend of her ex-husband’s or no. Malcolm tries to keep up with all of her society news, if only to help keep her calm. 

_Tries_. His own mind is racing. He hasn’t remembered a single new thing about Colette, which means he’s not entirely sure what to expect. Surely she’s been told about his amnesia. Does she have any sort of fondness for him at all? Or does she hate him enough to ignore his condition? He settles a hand on his bump, feeling his son kick at his palm and letting it soothe him. It doesn’t matter how she acts. He and Gil did all of this by the book for remote consulting, and his efforts have consistently produced results. 

Gil meets them at the entrance. His face is tight with stress, but he pulls Malcolm into a soft kiss. “You ready?”

Malcolm smiles at him. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Then let’s get this over with,” his mother says, “and then we can go back to mine. I’ve found the most adorable online baby boutique, and…”

Nothing prepares him for the look of disdain he’s leveled with as soon as Gil pulls him aside to meet with Colette first. It pings something, makes his back a little straighter as some sort of instinctual armor settles around him. 

Clearly, they don’t get along at all. 

“What did Paul Lazar say to you?” She’s sitting on the edge of Gil’s desk, using the added height as some sort of power play. 

Malcolm leaves a calming hand on his stomach. He’s in one of the chairs in front of her. “It’s in the transcripts,” he says simply. The calls — after the first — were monitored. She should, _does_ know this. 

“He refused to talk to anyone but you,” she continues, pressing. “There might have been something coded in what he said. Something only you would understand.”

Lazar talked about a camping trip, and Malcolm’s sure he’s referring to the day the picture of him and his father by the car was taken, but that’s the extent of it. He wouldn’t have even known about it without his mother begrudgingly giving him the box of his old things in an attempt to help him remember his childhood. The conversation with John sparked nothing. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. The transcripts —”

“You are _just_ as difficult as you always were,” she cuts in. The look on her face is tinged with resignation. “This was a waste of time.”

“Agreed. Goodbye, Special Agent Swanson.” Carefully, he gets out of his seat, taking a moment to get his balance right before he leaves the office.

— And bumps right into another agent. He’s a tall, sturdy man with short black hair and mossy green eyes. 

Malcolm stumbles and has to catch himself on the doorframe. There’s no help from anyone else.

Neal’s eyes are firmly focused on his stomach, and Malcolm knows his name is Neal the way he knows his cock curves slightly to the left. His voice, too, rings through Malcolm’s head despite the silence. His voice, his words, his rejection. 

_It’s not mine._

_I don’t care what you do with it._

_You didn’t think you were anything more than a mediocre fuck, did you?_

“I didn’t think you’d keep it,” Neal says eventually, eyebrows raised. 

“Don’t worry,” Malcolm hears himself say. “I don’t expect anything from you.”

Over Neal’s shoulder, he can see Gil watching, cautious, from across the precinct. 

Neal snorts. “That’s what you say now. You’re needy, _sweetheart_.” He says it the way he always said it, and Malcolm hears the demeaning tone now more than ever. “You’ll be back. In fact —” Stepping back to the closest desk to the door, he grabs a thin folder, which he presents to Malcolm. 

They’re legal papers freeing Neal from any obligation to Malcolm or their child. 

Malcolm’s child. _Gil’s_ child. Malcolm skims it right then and there, looking for loopholes, and when he finds none, he gladly signs it. “Here.”

Neal takes it back with a disbelieving scoff. It softens, turns into a smirk. “Though, if you’re up for one more pity fuck after you pop —”

“Wilks,” Colette snaps, and her tone leaves no room for arguing, “pack your bags. You’re off this case, effective immediately.” She glances at Malcolm. Her expression is somehow less aggressive than before. “You can go, Bright.”

He does. Behind him, he can hear Neal backpedaling. In front of him is Gil, who moves forward to meet him. 

“Are you okay?” he says, resting a hand on the back of Malcolm’s neck. 

Malcolm’s eyes drift shut as he nods. “Or, I will be. How’s the case coming?”

Gil opens his mouth to answer, but he doesn’t get the chance.

Instead, a drunk man with overgrown stubble and greasy hair pushes his way past startled officers to get right in their faces. “You’re wrong about him,” he says nastily, putting his finger right in Gil’s face. “Ian would never—”

Gil puts a hand on the man’s arm. “We know, Shannon.” There’s something approaching pity in his voice, but mostly, he’s wary. “Turner was murdered.”

The fight leaks out of Shannon. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

Ignoring the fact that neither he nor Malcolm started this, Gil eyes him up. “You worked with him for years. Can you think of anyone who might have held a grudge? This was personal.”

Malcolm goes home while Gil and the team follow Shannon to Turner’s storage. He’s sitting at the counter eating ice cream when he gets the call.

Matilda Watkins has been taken into custody. John Watkins, aka The Junkyard Killer, has escaped. The FBI suspects he’ll be going after Malcolm, his sister, and his mother. 

Spooky rubs against his arm as he stares at his bowl blankly.

When Gil gets home, he finds Malcolm curled up in bed timing his contractions and begging their son to wait. 

Daniel Arroyo is born three hours later. He’s remarkably healthy for being a month premature, for all the stress he’s been surrounded by. 

(He’s clearly inherited Malcolm’s stubbornness.)

## Christmas Eve

The Whitly home looks more festive than it has in ages. Wreaths sit on nearly every door. The rugs have been swapped out for rich reds and greens. Holly hangs over the main entrance. There’s a tree just through the doors, tall and wide and full, each branch draped with delicate white lights and silver tinsel. The ornaments are balls of varying sizes. Some of them sparkle with glitter, some are simply shiny. At the top of the tree rests a golden star with six points. At the bottom is a bevy of professionally wrapped presents. 

Jessica yanks Malcolm into a hug as soon as she opens the door. She holds him tight, tears in her eyes. It hasn’t been long since she saw him last truthfully, but everything they’ve been through recently has made her more prone to gestures like this.

Gil watches them, gently rocking Daniel. Thankfully, he didn’t need to stay at the hospital terribly long. He and Malcolm were able to come home at the same time.

Ainsley comes up behind him with a bottle of wine and a sweet smile for her favorite little nephew. Wrapped around her elbow are the handles to a large bag full of gifts. “Hi, Danny,” she coos at him. 

“Why don’t we all go inside,” Malcolm suggests from where he’s held tight against his mother. 

They do. It’s all the traditions of a Whitly family Christmas and more. The food is elaborate and plentiful. The stockings are filled to the brim above an actual fireplace, and they take turns emptying them to find the chocolate orange hidden at the toe. Jessica has at least three drinks before dessert is served. It’s an elaborate yule log cake complete with fondant mushrooms and delicate sugar flowers. 

(Malcolm has two slices. 

Gil swipes a glob of ganache off the corner of his mouth with his thumb and sucks it clean, their son sleeping between them.)

The house is filled with family overnight, too, both men and Ainsley staying over to have Christmas morning with Jessica. Daniel isn’t so keen on it. His surroundings are different, even down to the smells. There are no cats to sniff at him or lick his cheek with their sandpaper tongues. His fathers are barely able to settle him down.

For a few hours. 

Malcolm wanders down with the squirming bundle shortly after one in the morning. He’s barefoot, clad only in his own sweats and one of Gil’s sweaters as he rocks his son with gentle movements. Already, Daniel’s calming. In fact, Malcolm is texting Gil to say he’s on his way back up when he hears it.

A door. No one should be down here. The staff has gone home for the night. His mother is asleep in bed. His sister is in her room, though he heard the TV when he passed by. Even Gil is upstairs, fitting diaper changing supplies back in their baby bag. 

He turns just in time to see John Watkins, axe in hand, walk through the threshold to the living room. John grins at the sight of him. 

Malcolm holds Daniel close and dials 911 with a trembling hand. 

“Long time, no see, Little Malcolm,” John says. He flips his axe and catches the handle with a deft hand. “I was hoping I’d find you first.”

The operator picks up. Malcolm _runs_. 

“Aw, really?” floats down the hall.

He can’t go upstairs. There’s no exit there, of course, and his family is there, too. Malcolm _won’t_ bring John to them. He darts down hallways and through rooms, trying to think of where he could hide. Even if he could find a place to hide his son — 

And then Daniel starts crying again. The running is jostling him. The tension in Malcolm’s grip is worrying him. His face scrunches up, reddening as he wails. 

Malcolm starts crying, too. He barely manages to tell the operator what’s going on, the fear rippling through him not for himself but for Daniel. For Gil. For Ainsley and their mother. He locks the door behind him as he heads towards the kitchens.

An axe rips through it by the handle. A calloused hand reaches through the gap and turns the lock. 

The closest thing he can grab is a butcher’s knife. It’s still not enough, still won’t put enough distance between them, but Malcolm holds it up as he’s finally cornered, Daniel cradled flush against his chest. “Don’t get any closer.”

John gives him a faux hurt look. “You know, you’ve grown to be quite the disappointment, Malcolm. Whatever happened to you before you came back to the city got rid of all that potential I saw in you as a kid.”

“Come closer, and I _will_ stab you,” Malcolm shouts over his son’s wails.

“Or maybe not.” John chuckles. He takes a few steps closer. “You stabbed me then, too. Don’t you remember?”

“I’m telling you —”

John keeps coming. “It’s a pity I have to waste you.” He swings.

Malcolm drops the knife in favor of grabbing for the handle of the axe. He pushes it back against John’s grip, his knuckles white with the strain.

A shot rings out. 

John stumbles. 

Malcolm rips the axe away from him as he falls. 

Gil stands in the doorway, eyes narrowed, gun raised. “Are you two okay? What the hell happened here, kid?”

“I’m not sure,” Malcolm says faintly. “He got in somehow.”

Daniel cries and cries and cries.

Their first Christmas morning as a family involves a group of uniformed officers searching the basement. Edrisa and her team take pictures of the kitchen, the body of John Watkins still cooling on the floor. Dani and JT are huddled over by Gil, Malcolm, and Daniel while Jessica flits around offering coffee to anyone and everyone. Ainsley hovers, making notes for her next news piece already. 

Some memory niggles at the back of his mind. He leaves it be.

“I can’t even imagine,” Dani says, looking at the sleeping face of her boss’ son. 

“You don’t want to,” Malcolm murmurs. He’s only glad Daniel isn’t crying anymore. 

Gil holds him closer. 

“Tally has a gift for him,” JT says suddenly, quietly. “The baby. I didn’t bring it with me.”

Gil half smiles. “We’ll stop by once things have settled.”

Once they’ve gotten home. Once they’ve curled up in bed and reassured themselves they’re all safe, that Daniel is fine, that their little family has survived this.

(And they do. The cats come to investigate and end up sleeping on their legs, up against their backs. Gil kisses Malcolm softly as they watch over their son.

Together.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it!! I ended up including what would have been the epilogue in here as well, so this was the last chapter. It's been a journey, y'all. Thank you so much for going along with me <3

**Author's Note:**

> "An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but will never break." - Ancient Chinese Proverb
> 
> Hey guys! I'm aiming for each chapter to be 3k, and I'm not pre-writing anything, so I can't give you a strict upload schedule unfortunately. Please let me know what you think in the meantime!


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